


What Binds Us Together

by Amaya_Ramiel



Series: Catherine Helena Watson Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, John Watson Has a Daughter, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, SO MUCH FLUFF, Toddlers, cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-24 02:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13801242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amaya_Ramiel/pseuds/Amaya_Ramiel
Summary: Sherlock is back and is making plans to be reunited with John, but John's life has not been as static as he'd hoped. Who is the little girl with him? And can Sherlock pull John out of his depression? H/C family-centric, fluff & angst, not slash, COMPLETE





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Fanfiction.net in 2012.

Sherlock Homes was back in London after three long years in hiding. He had finally been able to track down the splintered remains of Moriarty’s organization, and now all that was left was to return home. Although his brother Mycroft has kept him up to date with the latest political and criminal news, the man had failed to keep him informed of the lives of his friends. During his hiding, Sherlock had accepted this as a blessing; if he didn’t have to worry about the friends and colleagues he had left behind, then he could focus on hunting down Moriarty’s organization. Besides, he had reasoned, everyone believed him to be dead, so their lives should proceed with little relevance to his own.

But returning to London now, he began to realize what his ‘resurrection’ would mean to those close friends. He therefore had to plan how he would present himself to John once more. Three years before, at the moment of his ‘death’, he had felt unexpected pain and sorrow at knowing the pain his death caused his best and closest friend. It had almost been enough to cause him to forgo all his carefully constructed plans and return to comfort John Watson. However, practicality and opportunity told him it was best, for himself and for John, if the doctor were kept in ignorance over his not-so-demise.

Sherlock knew he couldn’t simply go over to John and say ‘Hello, I’m not dead.’ At best the man would punch him, at worse, he would actually make John faint or have a heart attack, and that would really be an inconvenient way of rekindling their friendship and partnership. He also knew that he couldn’t just ask John to come back with him to Baker Street, for he didn’t know anything about the doctor’s life in the past three years. For all he knew, the older man had established a practice somewhere in town and would be reluctant to part with it now.

The detective decided the best course of action was then to watch the good doctor for a couple of days, deduce what he could from his comings and goings, and thus decide on the best course of action. In retrospect, he imagined it might have been best if he had done some ‘fact finding’ on John’s life before going ahead with his plan. The most Mycroft had told him was that John was working double shifts at Bart’s almost every day, therefore that was where Sherlock would begin his surveillance. Disguising himself as another patient, Sherlock arrived early in the morning and took a post near the clinic where he could watch the doctors rush back and forth. Soon he caught sight of his target; Dr. John Watson, donning his white coat, walked tiredly but determinedly to the nearest desk and asked the nurse on duty for the next patient folder. The first thing Sherlock noted was how tired the man looked, which was probably due to working through a long shift, seeing to who knew how many sick people. The second detail that the detective noticed was how much weight the doctor had lost. His cheekbones had become more pronounced, and his coat seemed to hang off his thin frame much more than he remembered three years before. In addition, his skin had that translucent tint to it that implied lack of food.

_John, what have you been doing to yourself?_

Sherlock then began noting other details on his friend’s person such as dark bags under his eyes, _lack of sleep_ , the finger-shaped stains on the bottom of his coat, _child patients_ , the redness in his hands, _has washed them constantly_ , and that was when he saw it. On John’s left hand, a gold band adorned his ring-finger. For a moment Sherlock’s brain stalled, before realizing that he was staring intensely and promptly resuming his act of common patient. _Married?! How could John be married?_ ‘Why not?’ supplied another voice in his head, ‘You don’t think he could have found someone after you died?’

This changed things; if before he only had to figure out a way to approach John in order to get him to renew their friendship and partnership, now he had to find a way to consider that John had other responsibilities, namely, a wife.

Sherlock felt anger, at himself because maybe if he hadn’t left John wouldn’t have gotten married, at Mycroft for not telling him, but mostly at John. And yet, the voice in his head questioned, should he really reproach for getting married? Should he not be happy for his friend? These conflicting thoughts occupied Sherlock for most of the morning as he continued watching the doctor come back and forth between patients, each time looking more and more tired.

Sometime around midmorning the nurse at the station stopped John before he rushed back to another check-up room and informed him that he had a call. Sherlock saw John sigh and pick the telephone, and he strained to read John’s lips and interpret the conversation. Despite John’s obvious exhaustion however, there was a faint smile on his face that hadn’t been there before, so Sherlock deduced the call must be from his wife.

“Hey sweetheart,… yes, I know, …. I’m almost done with the shift, … yes, I’m sorry I didn’t come home last night, …, yeah, I’ll take you for some ice cream later to make up for it, … I love you too, baby, see you this afternoon, ok. Alright, bye-bye.”

John sighed as he put the receiver down and ran a hand through his face.

“That girl has you wrapped around her finger.”

John broke into a small smile, “Come on, - he said as he picked up a file, -the sooner I finish, the sooner I get back to my lady.” John stepped away from the desk with a wink and headed back into the fray.

Sherlock sat there pondering the conversation; John’s love was evident, for even despite being incredibly tired, he was actually happy to have received the call. The exchange had been puzzling, nonetheless, especially the part about taking her for ice cream later. However, Sherlock didn’t want to let his mind wander into places that would make him create images of John’s love life. He supposed that the most he could do was continue watching John, and follow him when he left Bart’s. That way he would be able to see Mrs. Watson and determine how best to proceed based on his observation of their behavior.

\--

Three in the afternoon approached, and Sherlock saw John make his way to the station with relief, sign out, and gather his things before exiting the hospital. Following at a safe distance, the detective tailed the doctor as he walked down several streets, finally arriving at a nearby park. He knew, from Mycroft’s sparse information, that John lived fairly close to Bart’s, so his detour through the park wasn’t much of a surprise. The surprise came when, halfway through the park, John raised an arm in greeting to someone farther down the path. Sherlock continued walking, but quickly found a way to hide himself behind a tree, from which he could have a perfectly angled view of the doctor.

_So, his wife decided to meet him here_.

On the path approaching John, Sherlock noticed, was a youngish woman holding on to a tottering child. The child was bouncing up and down energetically, and pulling on the woman’s arm. But the young woman was too young, Sherlock thought. Surely this couldn’t be John’s wife. And who was the child? Had John actually waved to someone farther behind those two?

Sherlock’s questions were answered a moment later by the shrill shouting of ‘Daddy!’ from the little girl’s lips. A few feet away John dropped down his bag and crouched down arms wide just in time to receive the running bundle that crushed itself against his chest.

“Oh, my little girl! How are you, baby?” John straightened up, hoisting up the girl so that he held her tightly in his arms while he showered her with kisses. The child’s peals of laughter reached Sherlock’s baffled ears. _A child? A daughter? His John was a father?_

“I missed you, daddy.” said the girl with a pout, laying her head on her father’s shoulder, her arms still wrapped around his neck.

“I was only gone for one night, sweetheart.”

“I still missed you.”

“I know, I missed you too.” said John as he deposited a kiss on her forehead.

“Were you a good girl for Anna?”

“Oh, she was wonderful, Dr. Watson. A perfect angel, she is.”

“Thanks you so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Here.” John shifted his daughter so that she sat on his hip, while he extracted a check from his pocket and handed it to the young woman. “You’re a lifesaver Anna.”

The young girl took the check and said “It’s no trouble at all. Call me anytime. I love looking after her.”

The three parted company, but Sherlock hardly paid any attention to the departing woman, his attention solely focused on his best friend. John picked up his medical bag, still holding on to his little girl.

“So, shall we go home?” said John with a teasing tone in his voice.

“But daddy, you said ice cream.”

“Gasp, so I did. Well I guess we must have some then!” The little girl burst into laughter once more as John tickled her lightly; then they proceeded down the park leaving a very shocked detective behind. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

“A child, Mycroft! A child!”

Sherlock was pacing up and down his brother’s office.

“Yes, that’s what people do when they get married, produce offspring.”

“You might have warned me, you might have said something.”

“I didn’t think it was pertinent to the matter of keeping you alive and tracking down Moriarty’s men.”

“But you might have told me afterwards. Don’t make any excuses Mycroft!”

“Sherlock, I did not withhold the information out of spite. If you must know, when John and Mary married I considered telling you, as well as when their daughter was born, but I felt that it would put an unnecessary burden on you. And if you were to return before Moriarty’s men were captured, it would have placed the Watsons in danger. I apologize for my misjudgment, but there is nothing else I can do but try to rectify the problem now. What do you want to know?”

“How did she die?”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t play stupid, Mycroft, it doesn’t become you. John’s wife, how did she die?”

“What makes you think she’s dead?”

Sherlock frowned, “She’s not?”

“Oh, she is, I was merely wondering how you had deduced it.”

“Simple really. John had hired a nanny to take care of his.. daughter, while he was working.” The idea of John with a daughter still sounded foreign in his mind. “If his wife was alive she would have been taking care of the child. She wasn’t elsewhere working; I followed them for a while and at no point was she mentioned, nor did John receive any calls from her. They’re not divorced because John is still wearing his wedding ring. Conclusion, she’s dead. The question remains how and when.”

Mycroft shifted in his chair, and looked down at the papers on his desk. Sighing he responded.

“Almost a year after their daughter was born.”

Sherlock’s eyes shut of their own volition; Mycroft continued.

“From what John told me afterwards, she didn’t recover very well from the pregnancy. Apparently she had an undiscovered heart condition, which the pregnancy worsened, and almost a year after, before the child was even a year old, her heart gave out. I don’t know the particulars… I could have found out but..., it didn’t seem right to pry.”

“And John?”

“What do you think? Former soldier, doctor, now a widower, with an infant child?”

“He forced himself to pull through.” Sherlock ran a desperate hand through his black curls. “You should have been keeping tabs on him!” he shouted suddenly.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sighed and stood up from his chair, turning his back on his younger brother to stare out the window in his office. He seemed to be trying to contain his frustration, although Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was at him, or at the whole situation in general. Silence reigned in the large office for a minute, before Sherlock heard his brother sigh and then whisper softly: “Mary was a blessing; she and John complimented each other perfectly. She actually got him to stop being angry at me for indirectly causing your death.”

Sherlock frowned, not understanding where this was going.

“They even joined me for dinner on several occasions, and I was the first to learn they were to have a child.”

Mycroft became quiet again for a few moments before taking a breath and continuing.

“When she died, John appeared at my door, completely distraught; I’d never seen the man so… lost, … not even after your ‘death’. But he is a proud man, Sherlock. Don’t you think I tried to offer him help? He wouldn’t take it. Without Mary’s income, John has been working double shifts at the hospital, and he’s barely taking care of himself, in his attempt to make everything as perfect as possible for his daughter. But he continually ignores anything but the smallest of help.”

The detective knew this was probably the truth, he had lived with the doctor long enough to know the lengths to which the man went to preserve what he could of his pride. He remembered how long it had taken him to convince John to use his credit card to buy food when he noticed the smaller man was starving himself in order to make sure there was enough food in the fridge for Sherlock. Honestly, the man had a very low sense of self-preservation. If that was regarding money, how much more stubborn would John be about guarding his feelings? First things first, he decided, was to get John ( _and child_ , his mind added) back to Baker Street.

“It’s a good thing he doesn’t know about Anna” added Mycroft as an afterthought.

Sherlock’s frown deepened as he searched his memory to recall the person.

“The nanny?” Sherlock remembered hearing John mention her name. Now that he thought back to the young woman he had so easily dismissed from his mind, he realized there were things about her appearance that didn’t ‘click’. Her shoes had been far better than anything a typical babysitter would be able to afford, and the way she walked and held herself had also been slightly off, although Sherlock had to admit he wouldn’t have realized that if not for Mycroft’s confession.

“She’s one of your people?”

“Of course; you accuse me of not keeping ‘tabs’ on John, but I have. I try to look after him and his daughter as best possible, but with little direct involvement. He wouldn’t appreciate the ‘meddling’.” Mycroft’s tone belied what he really thought about John’s reluctance to outside help.

“What’s her name?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

It was Mycroft’s turn to frown in confusion. “The nanny or John’s little girl?”

“The child.” The younger Holmes thought that should be obvious.

“Her name is Catherine Helena Watson… what’s the matter?” Sherlock’s eyes had widened at the name.

“Nothing, it’s simply…” Mycroft noticed the small smile that appeared on his brother’s lips, and the far-off look his eyes gained.

“…sometime before my… death, we had a case that involved children…”

_John and Sherlock were back in their sitting room enjoying some well-deserved tea after simple but tiring case. Lestrade had called them out to an orphanage where one of the workers had been found dead by a group of children. The case required them to interview the kids, and Sherlock had had a generally difficult time vacillating between ignoring them and scaring them. Nevertheless, he had noticed how fond John became of the children, often keeping them entertained with stories while Sherlock did his thing, or coaxing information out of them when needed._

_‘You want children.’_

_John froze with the cup of tea half-way to his lips. ‘Sorry, what?’_

_‘Today, in the orphanage, I saw how you would look at the children. You wish you had one. A child of your own, I mean.’_

_John looked pensive for a moment, ‘Yeah, I suppose I’ve always looked forward to it, some day.’_

_‘You’d make a good father.’_

_John looked at Sherlock like he had grown a second head. ‘You think I’d make a good father? I’m sorry, are you an alien who had replaced my friend? Because I was under the impression that Sherlock Holmes regarded such things as sentimental nonsense.’_

_Sherlock resisted rolling his eyes. ‘I’m not being sentimental about it; I’m simply stating a fact. Most people don’t know how to communicate with children, nor do they care what they think, but you do, which indicates you would probably be more aware of your child’s needs.’_

_John seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘Thank you. Well, for that matter, I think you might be a good dad too, if you found yourself being one, somehow.’ Sherlock saw John shake his head as though he had suddenly realized the process required in the conception of a child and concluded he most certainly did NOT need those images in his head._

_‘I’d make a terrible father. I don’t know how to approach children.’ Sherlock was thinking of today, and how he’d been at a loss when trying to communicate with the little buggers. John seemed to read his thoughts._

_‘Those were other people’s kids. I think you’d be different if they were your own, if you had to raise them yourself. You are brilliant; you would learn all the educational theory and then come up with a new, better one yourself. Besides, what parent could be more attentive than you? You’d always know what they were up to, what they needed, and you’d teach them all that deduction and scientific stuff. Plus, I think that if it was ‘your’ kid, you’d feel affection for them, you’re not as heartless as you think you are, my friend.’_

_Sherlock considered the matter. He had never needed to or wanted to picture children in his life. When he had been a child he couldn’t understand other children either, and had done everything he could to get out of that stage as quickly as possible._

_‘I’m sure little Sherlock Junior would turn out alright, if a bit scary… ok maybe very scary.’ added John with a grin._

_‘I wouldn’t be cruel enough to name my child Sherlock.’ He had been picked enough at school, and called cruel names long enough to have a mild resentment toward his parents for choosing such a strange name for him. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his name, but it had been tough._

_‘It’s not a… bad name, just… unique. Anyway, it’s more interesting than ‘John’’ The doctor brought his teacup back to his lips._

_‘I like ‘John’’. John froze and looked up at Sherlock with mock horror, which Sherlock regarded with a scoff. ‘Don’t be dense.’_

_John smirked and sipped his tea for a couple of moments; Sherlock knew he enjoyed this type of banter between them._

_‘What if it was a girl?’_

_Sherlock turned to him, ‘You are aware that these hypothetical children do not exist, and are extremely unlikely in any case.’_

_‘Go on, - John encouraged the detective with a smile, ‘if you had a girl, what would you name her?’_

_Sherlock did roll his eyes at that and plopped down on his chair with a huff. He contemplated the question for a moment, trying to imagine himself with a little girl, all of his own._

_‘Helena’, he whispered out of the blue._

_‘Helena? That’s… well, that’s actually quite lovely. Where did that come from?’_

_Sherlock seemed almost as surprised. ‘I don’t know, you asked and that’s the answer.’_

_John smiled again and lifted his cup to his lips._

“Helena?”

“A momentary bout of sentimentalism, dear brother.”

“No, it’s alright. I’m merely imagining that I might have had a niece called Helena Holmes. Hmm, interesting.”

“What is?”

“John never mentioned that he named his daughter after your imaginary child, Sherlock. It makes me wonder whether, had the Watsons had a boy, they would have named him after you.”

Sherlock wondered as well. He always knew he and John were close, closer than at least _he_ , Sherlock, had ever been to anyone else in his life. However, he had always been mildly apprehensive about contemplating what he meant to John Watson – did he consider him a close friend as well? Were they closer, like brothers? Did John simply put up with him because he had nothing better to do? Sherlock was afraid of the answer.

“What will you do now?” Mycroft’s words intruded upon his thoughts.

Sighing, Sherlock considered the question. “Make my appearance, brother dear.”

“Be careful, Sherlock. He’s not the same man you knew three years ago.”

Sherlock imagined Mycroft was right; marriage, fatherhood, and death of a loved one (not to mention the previous ‘death’ of a friend) could change a person, and yet he had to believe, _hope_ , that there was still something of the John Watson he knew, that he could still find his friend.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Sherlock’s conversation with his older brother had left him with a lot to think about; mostly it left him reflecting about how much had happened in John’s life, and how far removed from it he, Sherlock, had become. _Hell_ , he thought, _Mycroft is closer to him now_. The thought brought a surprising pang to his cold heart. While he was somewhat grateful to his brother for looking out for his best friend, he couldn’t shake the jealousy he felt at knowing Mycroft had kept all of this _happiness_ from him. Sure, he had done it to protect both Sherlock, and John and his family, but the detective couldn’t help but feel he’d been left behind.

However, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the type to be left behind, and he made up his mind to continue with his plan to reintegrate himself into John Watson’s life. His place was beside the doctor, and vice versa, and he was determined to take care of both him and his child. _That is_ , anxiety bubbled up in his chest suddenly, _if he will have me back._

The detective decided to tail John for a week first, in order to determine the best moment at which to approach the doctor. He discovered that John had a pretty straight forward pattern: leave early, work until late in the evening, then come home, and then repeat the pattern again. Every second day he would get off from work early in the afternoon, at which point he would meet little Catherine, and take her to the local park, where they would spend a couple of hours playing. As the week wore on, Sherlock could see John’s exhaustion increase. The man was really spreading himself thin, trying to maintain a strenuous work load, while trying to spend quality time with his child.

Sherlock made some subtle inquiries, making use of his brother’s ample resources, and soon settled on a plan. At first he had considered approaching the Watsons while they were at the park one of those afternoons John was free, but the park was frequently full of other families with their kids, and Sherlock did not fancy a public spectacle. He tried to anticipate John’s reaction, but even he had to admit that it was all guesswork. After three years, he couldn’t be sure what his response would be.

So the detective opted for a more private setting; making a few calls here and there, he managed to get the doctor a day off from the hospital, and he arranged for Anna, the nanny, not to go to the Watson’s flat the following day. John was at his best after that second day, when he actually got to sleep a full night, so Sherlock’s plan was to make his entrance the following morning, around the same time the nanny usually arrived.

Sherlock stood outside John’s flat, a tiny apartment in a rundown building. From what Mycroft told him, after John and Mary married, they had rented a nice little place not too far from Baker Street. However, after her death, John couldn’t afford the flat under his salary alone, forcing him to move to this place. It made Sherlock angry once again, partly at John, for not accepting the help that Mycroft would gladly offer (hell, he could get a small mansion if he asked), and partly at the system that wouldn’t allow John, a wounded veteran, to serve as a surgeon again. Without a name for himself, he would find it difficult to establish a practice on his own either, which only left locum GP work. Since this was something tentative as well, he had to put on extra shifts to make enough to support his little girl.

Because of this, Sherlock wanted to bring John back to Baker Street, both to offer him a way to cut down on his workload, and to provide a better environment for his child. However, standing at the door of the little flat, Sherlock became anxious once again. _What if John became angry?_ _What if he said he never wanted to see him again?_ He tried to dismiss these thoughts as absurd, but he couldn’t completely rid himself of the knot that settled in his gut. _I ran down Moriarty’s organization to the ground, I can certainly face my best friend_. He raised his hand to the door and pressed the button that rang the bell.

_‘Come in, Anna, it’s open! I’ll be with you in a moment.’_ John’s voice rang from inside. Sherlock put his hand on the doorknob, but the door opened before he could turn it.

Standing in the open doorway, one arm stretched to reach the door handle, still clad in soft cotton pajamas and sporting a head of messy red-golden curls, was little Catherine Helena Watson looking up at Sherlock with all the innocence of a two-year old. Sherlock had expected John to open the door, he had prepared for it and knew what to say, but he wasn’t sure how to react to his child.

“You’re not Anna.” said Catherine with a frown on her small face.

“No.” that much was obvious, Sherlock thought. He really was rubbish with children.

Catherine’s face scrunched up, as though she was trying to remember the proper way of addressing someone at the door. Then, obviously pleased with herself for remembering, she stated clearly, if a little clumsily:

“Have you come to see my daddy?” Sherlock had to commend John, the child was very polite and well spoken, even though her words still had that ‘new’ quality to them that small children have, as though they have not yet become used to using certain words in specific orders.

“Yes, I have, may I come in?”

Sherlock could see her mind working, trying to determine what she should do. He had never really considered children, never taken the time to try to understand them, so now he found it oddly fascinating to watch so many thoughts cross such a small person’s face.

“How do you know my daddy?” she finally settled on this question, and for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint, Sherlock felt pleased that she hadn’t simply let him come in. The child clearly had more brains than he’d thought. Of course, if she knew more of the world, she would probably have called her father by now. But for an innocent two year old, she wasn’t dim either.

“I’m a friend of your father.”

The tiny Watson regarded the detective carefully, and Sherlock could see she was trying to put something together, but he couldn’t tell what.

“Wait here and I’ll get’im.” She made to close the door, but then she looked back at the tall man in the doorway, looking at him with an intensity Sherlock didn’t know she could possess.

“What is it child?”

She actually seemed to be debating with herself; Sherlock didn’t know so much indecision could be found in someone this young. Finally, as though still unsure whether she should continue talking with this stranger or not, she answered tentatively:

“You… you look like someone I know.”

“That is not possible child, for we’ve never met.” Sherlock wondered whether she had perhaps seen him in the park that first day, or on one of the subsequent days when he’d been tailing John. He was certain he’d avoided detection, but maybe little Catherine was more perceptive than he’d given her credit for. After all, he’d been a very perceptive child himself.

“It’s just.. you look like m’uncle.”

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat momentarily as he dared to consider the implications of what that meant. Did she really mean him? Who else could it be? He considered for a moment that John maybe had her refer to his brother as ‘uncle’…, but she couldn’t be confusing him for Mycroft, because they looked nothing alike, and she would certainly recognize him. The only possibility was…

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.” he whispered, crouching down to look at Catherine face to face.

Her eyes widened significantly, bright blue eyes that Sherlock imagined she got from her mother, given that John’s eyes were brown.

“But you can’t be. Uncle Sh’rlock’s in heaven, with my mummy.” she whispered.

Sherlock found himself swallowing thickly, feeling a mixture of elation and regret at the same time. This child, John’s daughter, knew him, and had been taught to regard him as her uncle. Not only was her second name inspired by him, he was actually held in an equal category of ‘family’ as her mother. Evidently, John must have told her about him, shown her pictures, maybe even told her stories about their ‘adventures’. He didn’t know whether it was common or not for close friends to refer to each other as siblings, and it left Sherlock lost in a melee of unknown emotions. John certainly had been closer to him than his own brother; indeed, if pressed Sherlock would admit that he had often wished the man _had_ been his brother in blood, as he was in spirit. But he hadn’t known that John felt the same way.

“Are you an angel, then?” her question snapped Sherlock out of his musings, and it almost made him laugh out loud. Child logic was a wonderfully singular thing.

“No, I’m very much alive.” That frown appeared again on her face, signaling that she was thinking hard about what he said, and Sherlock wondered whether she was capable of concluding that he had ‘faked’ his death. Did the concept of ‘faking’ even fit into a child’s view of the world? The detective realized that there was a lot he didn’t know about children.

 Suddenly, from within the flat, came John’s voice again, louder this time, signaling that he was approaching.

“Cathy, what’s taking you so long? Where’s Anna…” John came into the hallway, still buttoning up his coat. As he took in the scene before him, he could do nothing but gape at the open door, his eyes darting between his daughter and the crouched down form of Sherlock Holmes.

His mouth opened and closed a few times, and his breath caught in his throat.

“It can’t be.” The whispered words passed John’s lips, even as his eyes lost focus, and his body tipped sideways, promptly colliding to the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Sherlock mentally cursed himself over and over. This was precisely what he’d hoped to avoid. As he saw John’s eyes lose focus, seeing him tilting to his side, Sherlock had rushed to his feet, stepped past little Catherine, and tried to catch the man before he crumbled completely. However, he was too slow, and could only watch as his friend’s head collided with the floor with a sickening thud.

Quickly crouching beside the fallen doctor, Sherlock took both his pulse and checked for any head wounds, although he was certain he wouldn’t find any.

“I’m sorry John, for once I did hope to use more tact. It doesn’t seem the universe appreciates it though.” he mumbled as he performed his quick examination.

“S’he ok?”

Sherlock took notice of the small child standing next to him; he could see the fear in her eyes and barely restrained tears waiting to fall. _Great Sherlock, you’ve not only made John faint, you’ve scared his little girl._ Making sure to keep his voice calm and even, he answered:

“He will be fine, Catherine. He was just surprised by my visit. He’s alright, child.”

If the girl was surprised that Sherlock knew her name, she didn’t show it. In fact, she barely seemed to register what he had said, although she did seem to calm down marginally. Little Catherine nodded at his words, but kept looking at her father with worry. Sherlock wondered whether she remembered her mother at all, and whether this was bringing back memories of that.

The small child knelt down by her father’s side, softly patted his cheek and threaded her short fingers through his hair. “Wake’p, daddy, please, wake up.” she mumbled, her words almost incomprehensible to Sherlock, as she stopped paying attention to her diction and reverted to a more ‘toddler-like’ speech. But she didn’t cry, and once again, Sherlock felt a pang of admiration for the girl.

“He will be fine.” he reassured her again. “Stand back, I will get him to the living room.” The girl did as told, giving Sherlock space to maneuver John. Grabbing the shorter man under the arms, he half dragged, half carried the doctor into the living room. John, he realized, was a lot lighter than he remembered, and Sherlock was surprised at how much weight the man had lost in the intervening three years, or rather in the last year. The weight loss, he theorized, could probably account for why John had fainted.

As he lifted the unconscious body into the sofa, Sherlock also took quick stock of the room, noting its small size, and the meager attempts made at making it seem respectable. John was really living in a rundown place, despite his best efforts at making it a suitable home. Sherlock could tell which things had been brought from their previous flat, the one they had when Mary was alive, and how they had been used to try to make the dingy place look ‘homey’.

But Sherlock had more important things to worry about at present than the living conditions of the Watsons. He almost asked whether there was any alcohol in the flat that he could give John to revive him, but he caught himself just in time. Somehow he didn’t think John would be happy if he asked his two-year old such a question. He settled for lightly slapping John’s cheek, trying to get a response from him.

“Come on, wake up John. This is a bit silly, you must admit. Wake up.” He realized he had mirrored Catherine’s words from earlier, and he spared a glance at the quiet child who stood, almost in shock herself, staring at her prone father. “He will be fine.” He reassured her again, as much as himself. “He’s just stunned.”

Slowly, thanks to Sherlock’s insistent actions, John regained consciousness. The doctor brought a hand to his forehead, as sharp pain blossomed through his head.

“Ow.” His eyes were clenched in pain.

“Daddy, you ok?” Sherlock really hoped he hadn’t distressed the child much; John would really be upset with him then.

“Mmm, I’m ok, baby, my head just hurts a little.” John said as he rubbed his forehead. He then suddenly stilled, his hand still pressed against his face, as he remembered what had happened. His eyes flew open and stared at the figure sitting next to him on the couch and slowly he lifted his gaze to look directly into Sherlock’s face.

“It can’t be.” he said breathlessly.

“You said that already.” Sherlock simply stated.

John’s eyes widened, and the detective wondered whether he was about to faint again.

“You’re… but you’re.. I.. it’s not possible… I must be.. but I can’t be..”

Sherlock decided to intervene before John did convince himself he had lost his marbles.

“It’s me John. You’re not dreaming, or hallucinating, or crazy. It really is me.”

John grabbed his arms suddenly. “Sherlock? Can it really be? Sherlock!” Just as suddenly, Sherlock found himself in a tight embrace. Tentatively, he raised his arms and wrapped them around his friend. “It’s me John.” He repeated.

John gasped and pulled away again, hands on either side of Sherlock’s face as though trying to prove, by examining each line and feature, that it was really him. “How? How?” he whispered.

Sherlock placed his hands over John’s, which were still on his face. “It’s a long story. Suffice it to say, I never died.”

John laughed then, a little hysterically, if Sherlock admitted. The man was still looking at him like he had two heads… or like he’d just returned from the dead. If Sherlock had been paying more attention to John’s reactions instead of concentrating on reassuring the doctor that he was indeed real and alive, he might have been able to dodge John’s fist. As it was, it took the detective completely by surprise to find himself sprawled on the floor, nursing a bruise on his cheekbone.

_Fantastic_ , he thought; every scenario that he’d been hoping to avoid actually came to pass, _Brilliant, Sherlock, bloody brilliant_.

The detective lifted a hand to his face, looking tentatively between John and his daughter.

The doctor, eyes wide and panting like he’d run a marathon, followed his gaze and saw Cathy looking up at him with frightened eyes. John took a shaky calming breath,

“Cathy, come here, love.” The girl did as instructed, although somewhat hesitantly. Putting both hands on the two-year old’s shoulders, he said: “Now, daddy’s a bit angry right now at _uncle_ _Sherlock_ (he spat the name out through clenched teeth), so he’s going to say a few mean things at him right now. But don’t worry, everything will be fine, ok.” John even offered her a smile to try to reassure her.

“Ok, daddy.” Her eyes were wide with worry. She’d never seen her father angry before, but if he said to trust him, she would.

“Right.” John placed his hands over her ears, and then looked at the detective still sprawled on the floor, and in a loud whispered he all but yelled:

“How could you do that to me?! How could you let me believe, for THREE YEARS, that you were DEAD?! What kind of sick-” here John paused, trying to find an age-appropriate word, “ _bastard_ ”- he said with emphasis, “does that?!”

Sherlock would have found the scene funny if it wasn’t for the death glare John was sending his way. He knew John was furious with him; on the other hand, he had referred to him as ‘uncle Sherlock’, and had stated, albeit for his child’s comfort, that ‘everything would be fine’. On the _other_ other hand, John _was_ glaring daggers at him, and he _was_ hurt, so he could just be putting up a ‘nice’ front for his daughter’s sake.

“I saw you d-” the word got stuck in John’s throat, and Sherlock could see all the range of emotions that flirted over his friend’s face - the memories of his ‘death’, the implications of betrayal, the anger, the fear. And yet, underneath it all, Sherlock could also detect the unbelief and relief, and that gave the younger man a glimmer of hope.

“I’m sorry John, I wanted to tell you; so many times I wanted to tell you.”

“Why?! Why did you lie to me? How could you?!”

“To get them, John! I had an opportunity to hunt down Moriarty’s entire operation, to dismantle it piece by piece, and I did it!”

“And you couldn’t tell me? I wasn’t important enough to be trusted?” The pain in John’s voice was palpable; three years of loss embittering his words.

“Oh, John, John! You were my key piece! You believed I was dead! Therefore everyone else did too!

“So ‘yes’ then?! I couldn’t be trusted to keep a secret? Too stupid?! Too _average_ and _dumb_?!

Sherlock shook his head at John’s words. Of course that’s how he would feel, how could he not? But that wasn’t the truth; Sherlock would have given anything to keep John by his side. To the detective, John _was_ brilliant, even if he did lack Sherlock’s mind.

“I couldn’t risk you, I couldn’t put you in danger…” Sherlock swallowed hard, “they were going to kill you.” he finally whispered. He knew John was up to the danger, but this wasn’t the same as before, this was certain death.

“What?

“You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade… everyone I cared… _care_ about, would have been-” Sherlock suddenly stalled, looking between John and his daughter, “ _shot_ ”, he whispered even lower, “if I didn’t do it. It was the only way. And if you found out afterwards, it would have put you in even more danger.”

“So you took my life into your hands? You’re the one who gets to decide?

Sherlock shook his head again; this was going all wrong. He had envisioned explaining to John that he’d been fighting and pursuing criminals for three years for him, and John would be grateful and understand his reasons. But the doctor was hurt deeper than he’d expected; he needed him to understand that he, Sherlock, couldn’t…

“Please John…If something had happened to you I.. I couldn’t.. live with myself knowing I caused it… knowing I could have stopped it… I’d rather die… so I did,… please, please..”

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes and saw the fear that lay there, a fear the detective could barely explain, but that was very real to him. He wasn’t sure he could forgive him entirely, but he couldn’t blame him for being afraid for his friends, for _him_.

John’s hands fell to his sides, and Cathy, wide eyed, turned around to look between her father and Sherlock. The detective, in turn, kept his gaze fixed on the doctor, who seemed to be trying to digest and process all of the information. His head hung low and his shoulders were sagging, and he looked as lost as he had looked the last day Sherlock saw him in the graveyard.

“Can you imagine how it was for me? I did see _something_ happen to you, can you imagine what that was like?” John’s eyes looked haunted, and Sherlock moved over to where the doctor sat on the couch, kneeling in front of him, by far the most contrite position Sherlock Holmes had ever assumed.

“I’m so sorry. But I can’t.. change that, and.. I wouldn’t if I could. You’re safe.. and…” It was so difficult for him to express his feelings, but he knew that he had to try if he wanted to keep John Watson as his friend. “But I am here now… I’m here, John.”

The doctor crashed against Sherlock once again, embracing the taller man in a bone-crushing hug, as though he was holding unto some kind of lifeline, and Sherlock could not entirely blame him, for he held on just as tightly in return.

“It’s like a dream, some kind of absurd, wonderful dream. You are an infuriating idiot, you know that, right.” John whispered in his ear with barely contained emotion.

Just before it could get awkward a small voice cut through their reunion,

“Does this mean you’re not angry at uncle Sh’rlock no more?”

John and Sherlock separated, the younger man baring a hopeful look on his face that echoed Cathy’s question. John laughed, still slightly hysterically, but with a big grin plastered on his face.

“Oh, I’m angry, I’m very angry, but I’m also so happy, so very ridiculously happy.” He chocked down another laugh. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or both.

Sherlock’s grin was equally unrestrained.

“Good… that’s good.” he said stupidly.

John gave him a look that said _You are an arse, but I like you anyways_ , though, of course, he would never say that in front of his little girl, and Sherlock smiled even more, for the first time in three long years.


	5. Chapter 5

John and Sherlock remained frozen staring at each other, relief written on their faces, for a couple more seconds before John’s eyes suddenly widened and he sprung to his feet in a hurry.

“I’m going to be late!” John was practically running out of the room to finish preparing when Sherlock called him back.

“John!”

The doctor stopped and turned back apologetically.

“Sherlock, I’d love to catch up. In fact, we need to catch up, there are a lot of things we need to talk about, and I’m sure I’ll even punch you again at some point, but I really must go. I can’t lose this job.” His eyes flirted over to his daughter fractionally, but Sherlock got the meaning in that instant.

He was about to move again when the detective stopped him once more, and this time John noticed the sly grin on his face.

“John, you don’t have to go to work today.”

John narrowed his eyes, first in confusion, but then, as he considered Sherlock’s knowing smile and his words, his eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing serious John, don’t worry. I simply had Mycroft arrange a day off for you.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed in exasperation, “You’re not back five minutes and already you’re trying to rearrange and control my life.”

“I simply concluded that you would want to spend some time talking, as you yourself just said, which meant you couldn’t go to work. Solution, Mycroft.”

John closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair as he sought to find the patience needed to deal with his newly resurrected friend.

“Sherlock, I _need_ this job, I can’t take days off, I can’t.. afford it.”

“Nonsense, I’m back, which means we’ll get cases again, which means you’ll be able to afford it.”

John’s hands clenched into fists as he fought to suppress his anger.

“We’re going to have to talk about this too…” another calming breath, “but not here.” His eyes darted back to Catherine, who was looking between the two of them with all the confusion of a two-year old. She could tell that something was happening, but she couldn’t understand what.

John sighed again, trying to keep his voice steady. “Sherlock, how is it that you can make me happy and angry at the same time in the space of five minutes?”

“It’s a talent” the younger man responded without missing a beat.

“I’m sure.”

A few more seconds passed as John assessed the situation.

“Fine. No work today, grand. Friend back from the dead, good. Much to discuss. I need some air. Cathy, love, uncle Sherlock’s taking us out for breakfast.” John said all of this in a single breath, practically mumbling the words as though solving some complicated equation.

Catherine jumped up from the floor and hopped over to her father. “You’re here all day?” she said, a big smile adorning her face, the kind that always melted John’s heart.

“Yep, let’s go get you changed.” Before he could even say anything else Cathy let out a “yay!” and ran directly to her small room. John shook his head, looked back to Sherlock who had watched the exchange in fascination.

“She loves you.”

John raised an eyebrow, “Yes… of course she does.”

Sherlock knew most children loved their parents, this seemed to be a fact of life, even though he himself could not remember having done so; they had never given him reason to. This was why, looking at the interaction between the two Watsons, he couldn’t help but be fascinated at the level of devotion they had for one another. There was a bond there that Sherlock had never experienced. The closest he had come had been with John himself.

Snapping out of these thoughts, he thought back on John’s previous statements.

“You’re angry at me.”

“Yes.” was John’s quick response, “But we’ll sort it out later. I need some food… and more explanations.”

Sherlock nodded mutely. He knew John hated being controlled, or at least, feeling like his life was not his to control, and Sherlock could even relate to that. But he had also recently discovered that there is a difference between being controlled and accepting help, and one does not imply the other. He, Sherlock, had never wanted to accept help either, but now that he was in the position to offer it, he realized those differences.

“I’ll be right back.” John went to turn around, but stopped himself suddenly.

“I’m very glad you’re alive, Sherlock. Very glad.” he added before following Cathy to her room.

Sherlock could hear the emotion in John’s voice, a level of emotion that hadn’t been present three years before. When the doctor exited the room, Sherlock stood up and paced about the cramped living room, taking note again of the threadbare rug, the faded colors on the sofa and curtains, and even the few of boxes stacked in a corner, evidence of objects John had brought from his previous home, but had been unable to find a place for, _or couldn’t bring himself to look at_ , Sherlock’s mind added.

Yes, John had changed in the years he had been gone, but then he couldn’t blame him. He could see the lines of pain and sadness in the doctor’s face, etched there by his friend’s death and his wife’s death. There were also lines of frustration and anger, at his economic situation. And there was also the smile, genuine as it might be, that he forced unto his face whenever he spoke with his child. But even that smile had a tint of sadness

His thoughts were interrupted by the return of a certain bouncing child, dressed and ready. Her father was not with her, which meant Sherlock was alone to interact with her once more, which filled him with apprehension. She was an intriguing specimen, and yet he was also aware that she was a child. So many of her moods and emotions were written on her innocent face, and at the same time, there were others that he could not identify, for she had not learned how to express them yet.

“Are you really a d.. a dec… a dective?” Catherine was staring up at him again, big blue eyes opened in wonder. Sherlock could see in them a thirst for information, a desire to _know_ the world. He crouched down to her level, her bright eyes following him as he did.

“A ‘detective’, Catherine, yes, I am.” Although he had said her name before, when he called her name in the hallway, the name felt somehow foreign in his tongue, and he couldn’t completely explain the sudden impulse he felt to call her ‘Helena’ instead.

“And did’ya really ‘ave ad-ad-ven-tures with daddy?” she asked, forming her question carefully.

“Indeed, I did. Maybe we will have some new ones again.” He certainly hoped so, at least if he managed not to alienate John in the next few hours.

If it was possible, the girl’s eyes grew even larger, as she gasped at the idea of her daddy going on adventures.

“Daddy’s told me stories. Will you tell me stories s’metimes, uncle Sh’rlock?”

Her voice held so much hope and excitement Sherlock could do nothing more but agree. She only knew him for less than an hour, but the stories John had told her had been enough to win her over in mere minutes. Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that; never before had he received such attention and sudden affection from someone he’d just met. From her point of view, of course, she’d known him all her life, even if she’d never met him. Sherlock wondered whether that was how it was with regards to her mother as well. She was just a story or maybe, still, a fleeting memory- someone Catherine Helena Watson knew only through pictures and bedtime tales.

“I’ll be ready in a moment.” John called from his room, exiting without a glance for the two in the living room, and heading straight for the kitchen.

Catherine giggled softly.

“Is he always like that?”

The girl giggled again and nodded her head. She glanced over to make sure John was too far away to hear, and then turned back to Sherlock and said conspiratorially, “Always.” while rolling her eyes, looking very much like her father as she did so, and Sherlock had to resist the urge to laugh out loud. He did allow himself to smile at her again.

“Ok, everyone ready? Good. Let’s go.” John came back into the room and signaled for Cathy and Sherlock to follow him out. His voice still sounded strained and anxious; the entire morning had left him rattled and confused, and he wasn’t quite sure he was actually awake. For all he knew, this might all be a dream, he had them frequently enough.

Bouncing cheerily, Cathy headed for the door but was stopped by her father as he made sure she was buttoned up in her light jacket. It wasn’t cold in London yet, being only early autumn, but John was a doctor and he wasn’t taking chances.

The three exited the flat and later the building in moderate silence, mostly from the two adults; Cathy was simply too ecstatic about being outside this early in the morning, a rare treat for her, to contain herself. John let her skip about while they walked down the street of their neighborhood, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on her.

“You don’t usually eat out.” Sherlock broke the silence, but kept his tone soft so that Cathy, a few meters away, couldn’t hear.

“No. Anna usually makes breakfast for Cathy, and I’ll grab something at Bart’s, but I need some air, so we might as well all have breakfast while we’re out.” John answered, but didn’t look at Sherlock, although the two were walking shoulder to shoulder.

The two walked in silence for a few more seconds, content in watching Catherine as she hoped along. She stopped a little ahead of them next to a house that had an overgrown hedge still full of bright purplish flowers. Plucking two, Catherine ran back to her father and uncle.

“Look daddy, aren’t they pretty?” Cathy’s arm was raised as high as it could to show her daddy her flowers.

“Yes, very pretty.”

“This one’s for you,” she said, placing one of the blooms in John’s hand, “and this one’s for you” she handed the other one to Sherlock.

He took it gently, murmuring a “Thank you”, and Cathy skipped ahead once more, although John called out this time “Don’t go too far, love.”

“She treats me like she’s known me her whole life.” Looking down at the small purple flower in his hand, Sherlock whispered, although he knew Cathy wouldn’t be paying attention to their conversation anyways.

John frowned as though the answer was simple. “That’s because she has, in a way, at least.”

“She said you’ve told her of our ‘adventures’” Sherlock spared a glance toward John, but the doctor had his eyes planted firmly on his little girl, following her as she skipped along the cracks in the pavement.

“Well, Mary loved those stories, and Cathy loves them too. Besides, it saves me having to come up with silly bedtime stories.” John said with a grin, briefly looking up at his companion. “Granted, I have to modify a lot of the cases to make them more child-friendly, but you get the idea.”

“She calls me ‘uncle’.” The implications of that word, the implication of the relationship between him and John, made Sherlock hopeful that they could rekindle their friendship once more.

John sighed deeply. “After you.. you know..  I couldn’t understand why I was so.. distressed. You were my best friend.. but it felt like I lost even more than that.” John was trying to keep his tone light, but Sherlock could hear the deeper hurt behind it.

“Mary’s the one who got me to realize that it was like I lost a member of my family. Once I understood that, I could… grieve better. Does that make sense?”

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. His ‘death’ forced John to realize how close they had become, much in the same way that his imposed exile had revealed it to him.

“I obviously didn’t expect you to return, so I didn’t see any harm in telling Cathy to call you ‘uncle Sherlock’” John added hurriedly and even dismissively, but Sherlock understood the underlying question: _Is it alright? Does it bother you?_ John was afraid Sherlock did not feel the same, in fact, Sherlock realized, he might even be certain that the detective would be displeased with the moniker.

“I like it.” He sought to dispel John’s worries right away. He did like it, more than he ever thought he would. He had never even considered the possibility of being called ‘uncle’, that would involve scenarios concerning Mycroft that no human being should have to envision, but now that someone did, he found he enjoyed the warm feeling it produced. _Feeling is dangerous_ , a voice in his head reminded him, and he knew it was true, but now that he’d experienced it, he was reluctant to let it go.

“She’s an… intriguing child, I.. never thought I’d hear someone call me that.” Sherlock was thinking this over when his companion interrupted his thoughts.

“How did you do it?” John blurted out; he had obviously been trying to restrain himself from asking, but it proved too much for him.

“Not here, John. But I will tell you.”

Tight lipped, John nodded. He’d tried keeping the conversation light, and he was beyond overjoyed, in a dream-like state even, about Sherlock being alive, but he couldn’t escape the frustration and anger it left him with.

“Cathy,” John called, walking ahead of Sherlock to catch up with the girl. He didn’t spare the tall detective a second glance; truth be told, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to strangle him, hug him again, or both.

Catching up to his daughter, he took her hand gently. “This way.” He said; they were almost at the main road, and John wasn’t about to let his child wander about unsupervised. Finally glancing back, he saw that Sherlock had slowed his walk, looking apprehensively at John. The doctor realized that he had given Sherlock the wrong impression; acting as though he was leaving.

He sighed again, he was so emotionally tired, he called out, “What are you hanging back there for? The place we’re going is just around the corner.”

Cathy was also looking back, completely oblivious to the tension between the two adults.

“Come on, uncle Sh’rlock!” she urged him on, extending her hand toward him.

Sherlock saw John’s lips quirk slightly at that, reassuring him once again that John wasn’t about to tell him to go away. He hated all this walking on eggshells nonsense; John’s changing moods had him feeling like he was walking on a tightrope, so he couldn’t stop himself from worrying. On the other hand, despite his obvious anger, John had tried reassuring him twice now that he wasn’t unwelcome, quite the opposite. He, therefore, had to accept that John’s emotions would be chaotic and confusing for a while, but that he had to trust him.

Mirroring John’s small smile, Sherlock approached the Watsons, took Cathy’s tiny outstretched hand, and the three of them crossed the street, heading toward a nearby restaurant on the other side.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Sherlock, John and Catherine sat down at an empty table near the window. John had paused as they came into the café and picked up one of the booster seats they had for children, setting it next to him and lifting Cathy unto it so the girl could easily reach the table. As Sherlock sat on the opposite seat, he wondered whether this was really the best place to discuss how he had faked his death and his ‘adventures’ for the past three years. He wasn’t too worried about John causing a scene, the good doctor was never one for theatrics (fainting spells aside), but on the odd chance the man did decide to punch him, (and Sherlock had to concede it was still a likely possibility) they would undoubtedly draw unwanted attention.

A half-asleep waitress approached their table and asked what they were ordering. John picked up one of the menus on the table and debated with Cathy over what they wanted.

“Can’t I have that?” little Cathy pointed to something in the menu.

“Baby, you’re not having ice cream for breakfast. How about the pancakes?” John’s no-nonsense tone had Sherlock stifling a chuckle; he wondered whether this was another common occurrence in the Watson household.

Catherine stuck out her lip in a cute pout, but John didn’t pay her any attention.

“That’ll get you nowhere, young lady.” John said absentmindedly, while he continued studying the menu. “Uhm, I think we’ll have number 5, but bring an extra empty plate, er.. also, two glasses of water, and a cup of coffee for me, black.” John handed back the menu to the waitress who quickly tried to jot everything down, while holding back a yawn.

Next to John, Catherine placed an elbow on the table, rested her chin on her hand, and sighed dramatically what Sherlock had deemed the ‘John Sigh of Resignation’.

The young waitress tucked the menu under her arm and turned to take Sherlock’s order. He made his selection and handed back his own menu, which she took, stifling another yawn. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

“Maybe you would be more awake if you spent more time focusing on your studies and job instead of going out _clubbing_ with your questionable friends. I would also recommend that the next time make out with several men, you use a better concealer to cover up the multiple _love_ _marks_ they leave on you, especially if you don’t want your boyfriend to find out. However, at the rate you’re going, there is a high percentage of probability that you’re going to fail your test today anyways, and that your boyfriend will leave you, so perhaps you really shouldn’t bother.” Sherlock delivered his little speech in his well-known ‘you’re an idiot and I just proved it’ voice.

The girl remained frozen for several heartbeats; in fact other than Sherlock, who proceeded as though nothing was out of the ordinary, everyone was frozen in bafflement. The girl came out of her trance first, her jaw, which had been hanging open in outraged astonishment, snapped shut and her eyes flashed with rage, disbelief and panic. She glanced briefly at a guy who was sitting by the counter to check whether he had heard Sherlock’s claims, but he seemed to be entirely oblivious. Turning her head back at her customer, the young waitress glared violently at Sherlock, her entire body shaking with anger. John could tell she didn’t know whether to slap the tactless detective, scratch his eyes out, or burst into tears. With more composure than he thought her capable, the girl took a deep breath, wrenched the foldout menu from his outstretched hand, turned away from the table, and walked quickly across the café. Without glancing at anyone, she deposited the menus and her notepad on the countertop, and headed straight into the bathroom. The door slammed loudly startling some of the customers, including the young man at the counter, who glanced in her direction with a look of complete confusion.

Silence reigned for a few seconds at their table, as John’s thoughts struggled to form any coherent pattern to which he could hold on. Finally, running a hand through his hair in exasperation, John looked back at the detective.

“Ok, first of all, what the hell Sherlock? You didn’t have to be that incredibly rude, haven’t you learned any manners in the last three years? Second, how did you…?” John gestured around widely with his hands. John felt embarrassment and admiration at the same time, mostly embarrassment, and he realized he had sort of missed this kind of absurd event.

“The fact that she’s constantly yawning, even though it’s not _that_ early indicates she didn’t get much sleep last night.” Sherlock stated this like it was obvious, and John agreed for he had deduced a similar thing when she first approached them.

“She could have been up studying all night, how did you know she’s a student, for that matter?”

“Oh John, didn’t you see the biology textbook she was reading before she reluctantly decided to see to our orders? She has it propped open on the counter; it’s obvious she’s trying to cram the information before her exam today.”

John closed his eyes in defeat, or in a prayer for patience, Sherlock wasn’t sure, but it was certainly amusing.

“Ok, and the clubbing thing…?”

“If she had been studying last night, she wouldn’t need to be cramming today. Granted, it was the still-visible club stamp on her hand that gave it away.”

“Right…” John wasn’t the type to be looking at his waitress’ hands, but he imagined Sherlock was right about the stamp. “The questionable friends?”

“What kind of people take their friend to a club, let her make out with at least three different men, while probably aware she had a boyfriend, and all while knowing she had both work in the morning and a test later in the day?”

“Uh huh, and how did you deduce she’d.. three guys.. and that she has a boyfriend?” Sherlock might have little talent for subtlety, but John was all too aware of the little girl sitting to his left.

“The last bit was the easiest, really.” Sherlock said dismissively, “The boyfriend was sitting over there, by the counter. Now he’s trying to console her through the bathroom door, even though he was staring at the legs of that lawyer in the corner moments before.” John wasn’t even going to ask how he knew the woman in the corner was a lawyer. He let Sherlock continue with his explanation.

“When we came in, they were going over the textbook together, though hardly at all, I might add, for they were much more interested in-”

“Sherlock!” warned John.

The younger man glanced at the child sitting in front of him, wide eyes staring at him in awe. He might be unaccustomed to children, but he doubted even this bright kid understood half of their current conversation. Still, John _was_ the father, so Sherlock supposed he should respect that.

“Yes, well, you get the point. She, however, has a variety of marks on both sides of her neck, which she has tried to conceal poorly with makeup, presumably from her boyfriend.”

“How do you know he didn’t give’em to her?” This conversation was likely the strangest conversation the doctor had had in a long time, but he had to admit, he was enjoying himself and he really did want to know.

“First, they’re already starting to fade, so they happened last night. He, on the other hand, is not showing signs of being as tired and sleep deprived as her, which indicates he wasn’t one of the _participants_. Second, the marks vary in sizes. If you had seen them, even you would have determined they came from different people. Third, she’s covering them up with makeup instead of a scarf or a turtleneck blouse, ergo, she doesn’t want her boyfriend to find out. Conclusion, she was out clubbing while he was likely at home studying, as she should have been, and in the process she got so drunk she ended up snogging three other guys.”

John stared at Sherlock with a blank expression on his face. Coming out of his trance, he shook his head in disbelief.

“Brilliant. Still, just as brilliant. Three years… and you’re still as… brilliant as always. Completely tactless, a jerk, and utterly lacking all social skills, but brilliant.”

“You really think so?”

“’Course, uncle Sh’rlock!” Cathy quickly chimed in, “S’just like in daddy’s stories! So cool!” She wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened, but it she could tell it was praise-worthy and exciting, even though that other woman didn’t seem to think so.

Sherlock glanced between his two admirers, a warm feeling settling in his chest once more. He had missed this, he had missed being appreciated. He had always said that genius needed an audience, which was true; he loved showing off. But this was different. Where most people resented Sherlock, John Watson and now his daughter, were amazed and thrilled by his talents; where most people saw Sherlock as a freak, these two saw him as gifted and special. Not even his family had been that supportive, and Sherlock realized this was another thing he had missed during the last three years.

“Still,” added John, “next time you might want to refrain from making our waitress cry.”

“It really couldn’t be helped.”

“I’m sure.” John rolled his eyes.

A different waitress soon appeared at their table carrying their respective orders. Evidently the previous one decided she didn’t like them, for which John couldn’t really blame her. At least the orders had already been written down, so they didn’t need to risk upsetting a second girl.

For a moment they were all busy with their respective dishes, John especially as he divided a small portion of his food and placed it on the smaller empty plate. Sherlock watched as the doctor cut the food into small pieces, placed the plate in front of Cathy, and gently handed her the plastic fork making sure she had a good hold of it. Her small hands clutched the utensil clumsily but firmly as she started to wolf down her food.

“Small bites, Cathy! The food’s not going anywhere.”

Sherlock smiled at her antics, while also pleased to see John was eating a healthy portion of food. The detective suspected that this was more than the doctor usually ate for breakfast at the hospital every day, and he vowed again to take care of both father and child. However, at the moment, his thoughts were more preoccupied silently dreading what he knew was coming.

“So, Sherlock” John began, “how did you do it?”

“Which part?”

John narrowed his eyes in annoyance and raised an eyebrow.

“You know which part.” He raised his cup of coffee to his lips and took a sip. He knew he wasn’t going to enjoy this part, but he needed to know if he was to have any hope of forgiving Sherlock.

“It wasn’t that difficult, … the plan itself,” he amended quickly, “Going through it, however, was.. almost enough to… do me in,” Sherlock tried to keep his language light, for Catherine’s sake.

“But I saw-” John’s mouth clamped shut into a tight line as an unexpected lump rose to his throat, and he took a deep breath. Looking down at his plate he shoved a few bites of his breakfast into his mouth before he could look back up at Sherlock.

_It still hurts him so much_ , Sherlock realized, knowing he had to choose his next words carefully.

“You saw what you needed to see, what you were certain you would see.”

“I-.. I took your pulse. I saw your.. you later, in the morgue.” The doctor stumbled over his words; perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea at all. He was reawakening feelings he had worked hard to bury these past three years. He had actually convinced himself he was over it, but his emotions betrayed him.

Almost whispering, trying to calm John down, Sherlock continued, “Think of it John. At the time you were sure of the events as you saw them, there was no other explanation, and there was little reason to question what you saw. Now that you know otherwise, think. How did I do it?”

Sherlock knew John, of all people, would be able to figure it out; he was a doctor after all.

“I did see, there’s no way-”

Sherlock spread his hands to both sides, “Obviously there is.”

John glared at the detective, the man was truly beyond infuriating, which reassured John that he was most certainly alive. If he had been too nice and changed, he would have seriously questioned it was the same person at all. His quips did manage to pull John out of his darker thoughts.

“The pulse, John. How did I do it?”

John sighed in exasperation.

“Come on, John. How do you fake no pulse?”

“Drugs.” He finally answered with a shrug.

“Yes. Good.”

“You still jumped. There was-… there was proof spread all over the pavement.” John’s voice was tight and sharp once more. Next to him little Cathy slowed down her pace to look between the two men, confused once more.

“Blood can be faked as well.”

John nodded sharply. “You. Still. Jumped. I saw it.” The hand holding his fork shook slightly, as the images of that day flooded his mind against his will.

Sherlock sighed. “It was prearranged. I knew there was a big possibility I’d have to, which was why I texted Moriarty to that specific location.”

“But the _body_.” John hissed.

“You weren’t allowed to examine it thoroughly” he answered pointedly.

“But forensics…” John’s words trailed into silence as his eyes widened in realization.

“Molly?” he whispered in astonishment.

Sherlock merely took a bite from his toast and flashed John his cheeky grin.

“And you couldn’t tell me?”

Sherlock’s grin disappeared as he sighed sadly.

“You were in danger, from my own reputation at first and later, I discovered, from Moriarty’s men. I hoped the contingency plan wouldn’t be needed, I really did John. But he beat me, in a way, and there was no other solution.”

John nodded silently again. He wasn’t entirely happy with Sherlock’s explanation, and he would work hard to poke holes in it later (although he would probably fail at that, he accepted reluctantly), but he understood that at the time, in that moment of pressure and tension, Sherlock couldn’t find any other alternative.

“Why three years?”

“Well, at first I only hoped to get the three snipers, and ensure that you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would be safe…. I planned to return right after that. But Mycroft convinced me otherwise.” Sherlock thought back to three years ago, so long ago now it seemed, when he revealed himself to his brother. It was probably the first time Sherlock had seen Mycroft so discombobulated, which made him realize how much his brother had cared for him. Although the outside world wouldn’t have noticed it, Mycroft had been hit hard by the death of his younger brother, especially the knowledge that it had been largely his own fault and blindness.

When Sherlock appeared in his office two days after the funeral, there was a moment when he feared his brother would actually faint on him. Mycroft had stared at him with such intensity, unmoving and not even breathing, as though Sherlock was a ghost returned to haunt him. The detective wondered whether in that brief instant his brother had entertained the thought that he had finally gone mad. However, his surprise passed just as quickly, as his brilliant mind jumped into action and deduced everything that had happened. And after the shock wore off, Mycroft convinced Sherlock that now he was invisible, and he could completely destroy the rest of Moriarty’s organization.

Sherlock explained this to John, going over how, the more the brothers dug and searched, the more branches and connections they discovered. Finally, a few weeks ago, they had tracked down the last remnants, and put an end to Moriarty’s reign for good. With the last threat eliminated, Sherlock could come back to London. Oh, there would be new threats, crime never slept, but hopefully nothing as sinister.

John looked down at his plate as Sherlock finished recounting his reasons for his three-year-long absence. Their breakfasts had long been finished, but thankfully the waitress hadn’t yet approached with their bill.

“So Mycroft knew all along? Of course he did, why wouldn’t he.” he added quickly.

“I wanted to tell you, many times. You weren’t in danger any more, not directly. But this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Although now that I think of it..”

“What?”

“Mycroft was the one who advised me to keep you out of the loop, I wonder..”

“What, Sherlock? We aren’t all geniuses here!”

“I think he _was_ protecting you, as much as he wanted to bring down Moriarty’s organization.”

John gave this some thought. After Sherlock’s ‘death’, Mycroft had been particularly gracious toward him. And later when he married Mary, he had been as overprotective of them as he had been of Sherlock. Had he truly been worried that, if Sherlock returned to London without having eliminated every threat, John’s newfound happiness would be in danger?

“I’m going to have to have a talk with him about this overprotectiveness, aren’t I?” John smiled softly.

Sherlock was about to respond when their second waitress came back with the bill. She handed it over to John, glaring daggers at the detective, although John passed it straight back to Sherlock. If possible, the waitress glared even more, and John was thankful she couldn’t really make Sherlock’s head explode with her eyes, otherwise the world’s only consulting detective would have been dead already… again… John shook his head at that. It would take some time to get used to this.

Sherlock handed the girl the money, which she took with a huff. It seemed she debated for a moment whether to actually give in and call Sherlock ‘an unfeeling heartless bastard’ or not. In the end she settled for handing over the receipt, and marching away without the customary ‘Thank you, come back soon’.

As the three of them got up and left the café, John shook his head once more.

“You _really_ need to work on your people-skills.”

Cathy pushed her way in between the both of them, sliding her small hands into theirs like they had always belonged there.

“Daddy’s right, uncle Sh’rlock. ’S not nice to make people sad.” she stated wisely.

As they walked down the street, hand in hand and occasionally swinging young Catherine Helena between them, they headed for the nearby park in which Sherlock had first spied the Watson family. There were still many things they needed to discuss, but somehow, the air around them felt slightly lighter.


	7. Chapter 7

 

The park was mostly empty when the three of them arrived, with only a few people jogging past, and the little playground was completely deserted, so Cathy let go of Sherlock’s and John’s hands and ran as fast as her short legs could carry her to the nearest swing set.

“Come on, uncle Sh’rlock!” she called out to him.

The consulting detective glanced at John, who merely shrugged and nodded in Catherine’s direction, signaling Sherlock to follow her.

“Why-”

John knew what he was about to ask, so he saved the younger man the trouble of trying to put it into words.

“You’re interesting, a novelty, a character from stories come alive. Take your pick.”

“So, basically I’m a new toy?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he looked back in the direction Catherine had ran, gazing at the child like she was an intriguing yet incomprehensible creature.

“Yep, go on, play.” With a huge smile on his face, John pushed Sherlock over to the playground swings. Then, crouching in front of his daughter, John lifted her up unto the small swing and wrapped her hands around the chains.

“Hold on tight ok.” Cathy nodded eagerly, tightening her hold.

Father and child then looked up at Sherlock as though expecting him to spring into action. Sherlock, on his part, was looking between the two of them with a lost look on his face. Rolling his eyes, the doctor grabbed a hold of him and positioned him behind Cathy’s swing.

“You’re meant to push her.” he said, as though that explained everything.

“Push her?” Looking at the child seated in front of him, Sherlock couldn’t for the life of him comprehend why John would want that.

“Sherlock, have you seriously never played on a swing before? Surely, as a kid, your parents took you to a playground.

“I have been to playgrounds, and I think I must have used one of these things, but my parents were never part of the picture. Was that important?” His tone of voice was so innocent that John’s heart suddenly constricted at the thought of Sherlock’s lost childhood.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was trying to rummage through what little information he had about children and play. He knew ‘normal’ parents naturally performed a variety of activities with their children, although he had never experienced them personally. He and Mycroft had always been left to their own devices, but by the time Sherlock had been interesting enough to his brother, he was already well past ‘swinging’ age. A seven-year difference is a difficult riff for siblings to manage, especially when they’re young. And even when they did engage in ‘play’ together, it had been experiments and scientific observations, never trips to the playground.

“Don’t you know how a swing works?” asked John softly.

He knew John felt badly for him, but this was something he’d never thought of as having ‘missed out’. Still, he _did_ know what a swing was for, he just couldn’t understand what was needed of him.

“Of course I do. You swing back and forth, but wouldn’t that be hampered by someone pushing you off?”

Cathy and John burst into laughter.

“Sherlock! Haven’t you ever seen parents pushing their kids’ swings at the park?” John knew Sherlock could ignore the world itself when he wanted, but this was almost as bad as not knowing how the solar system worked.

“It was never pertinent information.”

John shook his head and was about to explain the mechanics of the thing, when Catherine chimed in.

“Don’t worry uncle Sh’rlock, I just learned a little while ago. I’ll teach you.” She was clearly excited to be able to teach something she had just recently learned.

The doctor glanced at his child, and with a wide smile still plastered on his face, he stepped backwards and allowed her to take over the ‘lesson’.

“See, I can’t reach the ground,” she swung her feet up and down to prove this, “so I can’t swing. My legs’ to short.” Her small movements swayed the swing, but Sherlock had to admit it wouldn’t be enough to gather the necessary momentum.

“Ah.” His mind quickly raced ahead, understanding the problem, and reinterpreting the instruction to ‘push’ the child, into the new parameters.

“I am to provide momentum.”

Cathy, keeping a tight grip on the chains, leaned back so that she could tilt her head up at her uncle.

“Only till I grow bigger.” She stated in all seriousness, and John had to stifle the laughter that bubbled in his chest..

Determining the best way to ‘swing’ her, Sherlock grabbed the chains just above Cathy’s hands and slowly pulled the swing toward him.

“Gently, not too high.” John warned.

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly, focusing on the task at hand. As he let go, the little seat swung forward, eliciting an excited squeal from its passenger, and as it swung back to him, he determined the best moment at which she needed to be pushed so that the swinging motion would be maintained. It wasn’t a complicated activity, but it was one he’d never engaged in before. As he swung Catherine, _Catherine Helena, my niece_ , memories of his own childhood resurfaced; memories he had filed away as meaningless or unnecessary.

He suddenly remembered sitting on a swing in an empty playground, after school, swinging gently back and forth. No one had taught him how, no one had done this for him, not his parents or Mycroft. Cathy’s peals of laughter filled his ears and he knew he’d never laughed like that when he was her age. However, instead of hardening his heart, this realization somehow made him want to give it to little Catherine Helena. He made her smile and laugh, and Sherlock realized with shock that he enjoyed it.

“You look quite natural doing that.” John had a knowing smirk on his face.

Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts, glancing at his friend, while maintaining Cathy’s momentum.

“I should know.” John added.

“Come back to Baker Street.” The question came out of nowhere, although it was the question he’d been meaning to ask all along, even if he would have liked to have phrased it better.

“Sherlock…”  began John

“There’s more than enough space, John”

“There was barely space three years ago. Besides, it’s not particularly childproof.

“I can make it safe. I won’t do experiments, I’ll even clean up… occasionally… often. And Mrs. Hudson had a third bedroom that’s currently unoccupied. There’s space.”

John sighed impatiently. “It’s not a place for a child.”

“We’ll make it one. Please John, come back.”

John looked down, glancing momentarily at his happy little girl, before averting his eyes altogether.

“I’m not like I was three years ago, Sherlock.” He finally whispered. “That John can’t come back.”

Sherlock pursed his lips in annoyance. “Don’t be dense John, I’m well aware of that. I’m… I don’t think I’m the same either. That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I.. I’ll think about it.”

“Come with me today.”

John was about to argue, but Sherlock didn’t give him a chance.

“I imagine Miss Watson here is well acquainted with Mrs. Hudson.”

Again John was about to raise a protest when he was cut off once more.

“Yes, I am! I love Mrs. Hudson!” Cathy, thanks to her skills for perception caught Sherlock’s drift. She had her daddy all to herself that day, and she wanted to make the most of it. If she could have, she would have made him take her all over London, on the best of adventures. And now, she knew, she had a conspirator with her. Granted, Cathy was too young to think of these things with any malice at all, but instinctively and innocently, she was aware of her powers of persuasion over her father.

“Oh, please daddy, can we go visit!” she begged as she swung backwards and forwards on her little swing.

John looked mutely between the two of them; between Sherlock’s not-too-innocent bright eyes and Cathy’s full-of-hope ones. _This is how it’s going to be from now on, isn’t it?_ Thought John, though not despairingly, _They’re going to gang up on me, staring at me with big childlike blue eyes until I give in!_ What actually surprised John was that he wasn’t that bothered by it. He had experienced his fair share of manipulation and command. In the army, he had to follow orders whether he liked them or not, being led from one place to the next with little choice of his own. Living with Sherlock for the two years before his ‘demise’, he had been manipulated, coerced, blackmailed and downright forced to follow many of the younger man’s instructions and commands. And yet, with Sherlock, most of the time John wasn’t angry.

The great detective was a master manipulator, so he had learned early on that the best way to get John Watson to do what he wanted was not to outright command him, but to ask. John could seldom resist being asked; so quick he was to offer help. As long as John knew exactly what Sherlock was doing, he was more or less fine with it. Oh, he would grumble and complain, but he would do it for his friend. It was backstage manipulation that ticked him off, and Sherlock knew it. And John knew Sherlock knew it. That was why Mycroft tended to annoy John far more often than Sherlock did. He thought John didn’t know.

No, you didn’t trick John into things, you outright asked, and he’d more than likely accept. This was also a trick in a way, both John and Sherlock admitted, but one which allowed John a measure of control.

“Fine! We might as well. But that doesn’t mean-”

“Of course not John, it’s just a visit.” Sherlock said with a smirk. Yes, they both knew what Sherlock was doing, no doubt about it.

Sherlock slowed down the swing and Cathy jumped off with a smile.

“Daddy, do you think Mrs. Hudson will make something nice?”

John took his daughter’s hand as they started walking toward the path that wound through the park away from the playground. As Sherlock walked beside them, Cathy slipped her hand into his larger one immediately, effectively linking them together.

“Babe, you can’t expect Mrs. Hudson to bake us biscuits and pastries every time we visit.”

“We can’t?” the question came from both the child and the grown up man next to her. John wondered, not for the first or last time that day, whether he was on an outing with one child or two.

“I’m not even going to answer that.” He deadpanned.

Catherine giggled and Sherlock tried to control the smile that threatened to lift the corners of his mouth. The three marched across the park and back out to the main road, where they took a cab back to 221B Baker Street.


	8. Chapter 8

As they exited the cab John gazed at the door to 221. He had been here several times in the past three years, at first because he was still living there, of course, and later to visit Mrs. Hudson with Mary and Catherine. The old landlady had fallen in love with Cathy from the moment she’d been born, and had treated her like her own grandchild, which didn’t surprise John, seeing how she had treated he and Sherlock like her own sons on many occasions. Indeed, John often viewed her more as a mother figure than as a friend, and she had been the first person he had allowed himself to cry in front of after Sherlock’s death. The only other person who’d seen him cry for Sherlock had been Mary, but he would never forget the day after the graveyard when he returned, broken, to the flat, only to find himself in Mrs. Hudson’s kind and comforting embrace. She had held him like a child as he cried for his best friend, his brother in all but blood.

It had only been natural, therefore, that she shared later in his happiness, doting on the Watson family, particularly on the little one. However, as many times as he had been back to visit Baker Street, once he’d left 221B, he’d never gone back up. He hadn’t even asked Mrs. Hudson whether she’d started renting it to someone else, although now he realized that the flat had probably been left empty thanks to Mycroft’s influence. He briefly wondered whether that meant Mrs. Hudson had also known all along.

“She didn’t know.” Sherlock, as always, was able to read his thoughts.

“Mycroft asked her to keep the flat empty for _sentimental_ reasons, told her he didn’t want to move my things out, and that he might need to use the place for his agents from time to time. Said the flat was a prime location in London. You should have seen her face when I returned.”

“Right.” John decided he’s mull that one over in his mind later.

The doctor was about to knock on the door when Sherlock produced his key and let them all in.

“Right, of course.” John was starting to feel like he was back on the high rope, balancing over empty space.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock bellowed, as was his custom, making John shake his head, whether in disbelief, disapproval, or amusement, he wasn’t sure. Knowing John, probably all three.

The landlady quickly came to her door, calling out to Sherlock through the door to keep his voice down.

“Honestly, Sherlock, you needn’t shout so. You’re not in the jungle, or wherever you were these past three years. Could you try to be more civilized?”

Opening the door, the small woman looked at the three people standing in her hallway.

“Look what I’ve picked up!” Sherlock spread his arms to the sides, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Sometimes, Sherlock could very much look like a child at Christmas.

“Ooh John, and Cathy, my sweet child! Come here.”

Slowly crouching down, she wasn’t as young as she used to be, Mrs. Hudson enveloped little Catherine in a tight hug, kissing her red curls tenderly. She then proceeded to pull John into an equally bone crushing embrace; no matter how many times he visited, she always did that.

“You’ve not visited in a while, I was beginning to think you’d forgotten your old landlady.”

“Forget you? That would be a most severe crime. I’ve just been swamped with work for the last few months.”

“I know, I know. Well come in, or do you want to head upstairs?”

Sherlock saw John’s sudden panic at the idea written all over his face. _Don’t go too fast_ , he reminded himself. He needed to give John time to adjust.

Taking over, Sherlock grabbed Cathy’s hand, a motion that was fast becoming familiar and comforting to him, and began pulling her into Mrs. Hudson’s apartment.

“We’ll come in. Is that baking I smell?” he narrowed his eyes inquisitively, glancing down at Catherine with a gleam in his eye. She gave him a blinding smile in return, her eyes also sparking with mischief. Together, the two made their way into the landlady’s flat, quickly appropriating her couch as they sat in expectation of sweets.

Mrs. Hudson followed them in, trailed by John, who tried to look calm and reserved, even though too many thoughts were swirling around his head.

Shaking a finger at the two sitting on her couch, Mrs. Hudson stated,

“You’re not having any just yet. For one thing, they’re not ready, and for another, dessert comes after lunch, not before.”

Twin pouts appeared on Cathy and Sherlock’s faces, and for a moment Mrs. Hudson felt empathy towards John for having to put up with these two.

“I’ll have none of that. Come now, tell me what you’ve been up to today.”

John joined them on one of the armchairs in the living room, smiling softly as Cathy and Sherlock, though mostly Cathy, enthusiastically related the events of the day, from Sherlock appearing at their door, to John fainting (‘I didn’t faint, I passed out, there’s a difference’), to the café and their poor waitress, to their walk in the park.

As she recounted the events, John also considered them carefully. This morning already felt so far away. He and Sherlock had fallen into their habitual rhythm and banter so quickly it was as though he hadn’t been gone for three years. And now he was considering moving back to Baker Street, with his two year old? How had so much happened in the span of a half a day? What did Sherlock expect of him? What did _he_ expect of Sherlock? Could they just pick up where they’d left?

He had been honest when he’d told Sherlock he wasn’t the same man he was three years ago. Not only had he gotten married and had a child, he had also experienced profound loss, twice. And even though he loved his daughter with every fiber of his being, and he couldn’t be happier with her, he also had to accept that he had been battling dark thoughts and a lingering depression for almost a year now.

Could that now be turned around? What was the right choice? John found he didn’t know.

They spent the rest of the day in Mrs. Hudson’s apartment, and while Sherlock excused himself briefly to go upstairs to fetch his beloved violin, John didn’t even glance in the direction of the upstairs flat. He couldn’t make himself go up those seventeen steps, not yet.

If Mrs. Hudson was indisposed by having them at her place the entire day, she didn’t show it. In fact, she seemed happier than she’s been in a long time, gushing tenderly over the three of them, making them lunch and dinner, while making sure neither Cathy nor Sherlock stuffed themselves with sweets. John watched it all, joining in their fun frequently, but analyzing it all silently at the same time. He saw how Sherlock took to Catherine, and she to him; they were like two peas in a pod, as the expression went. He loved to explain things, sharing his boundless knowledge, and she was his captive audience, drinking it all in. When Sherlock had brought down his violin, John had been unable to contain his laughter at Cathy’s wide eyes as she became spellbound by the lovely music Sherlock’s deft fingers produced.

But when the evening came, and they had all finished their dinners, John knew it was time to return home. Cathy was beginning to nod off to sleep, and he had to work tomorrow. Mrs. Hudson offered to let them stay, and she glanced meaningfully toward John’s old room, but the doctor wasn’t ready, so he made excuses and gave explanations, and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson shared a knowing glance, before they conceded.

Sherlock insisted on accompanying the two of them back to their apartment, to which Cathy wholeheartedly and vociferously agreed. Sherlock and Cathy were still engaged in animate conversation as they exited the cab and entered the apartment building. John was carrying the tired child, but that didn’t stop her from showering her uncle with questions, practically ignoring her father. John merely smiled and chuckled at the two; _Honestly_ , he thought, _Sherlock is just like a child himself!_ He thought again; it was wonderful to see him to animated, _so alive_ , John’s mind added.

Sherlock continued his fast paced recounting of some case or another that they had solved years ago, with Catherine interrupting ever so often with ‘How did you know?’ or ‘Why was that i’portant?’ questions, which Sherlock would eagerly answer. John noticed with fascination that Sherlock had, perhaps unconsciously, begun simplifying his choice of language, making sure to explain specific terms and events in a way Cathy could understand. She in turn was utterly enthralled, hanging on his every word, even though it was evident she was very tired.

As they entered the apartment, John set his little girl back on her feet, carefully taking off her shoes and jacket, and placing in their usual place by the door.

“Erm, would you like some tea or something?” John asked hesitantly. Now back to where they had started, the day was beginning to gain a dream-like quality to it. Not twelve hours before his best friend had returned from the dead after three years and stood right in this living room. Sure, they had spent the entire day getting reacquainted, had visited Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson, had played and talked like no time had passed at all, yet now back in his dingy little flat John was starting to feel lost and confused again. Where _did_ they stand? What were they now? What kept them together?

Sherlock read these emotions in John’s eyes. He was looking for an excuse to rush out of the room so he could gather his thoughts privately.

“Tea is good.” he stated.

“Good.” John agreed, turning around and disappearing into the kitchen.

Sherlock took a seat on John’s couch, and suddenly he found himself with an armful of child. Catherine had thrown herself against his chest, hugging him tightly. The detective froze for a few seconds before gently wrapping his arms around the tiny girl. This had certainly been a day of _firsts_ for him, but this _first_ touched him deeper than the rest. Never before had he received a hug from a child; he’d always been a frightening figure to all children. And yet this little girl, this wonderful, innocent, brilliant one had deemed him important. What a strange but marvelous notion, he thought.

“Thank you.” he heard her whisper softly in his ear.

“For what, child?”

“For being alive.” Catherin pulled back a little, just enough so that she could see her uncle’s face. “You made daddy smile, really smile.”

Sherlock found a sudden lump had risen to his throat. How much did she _see_ , he wondered, how much _had_ she seen, to be able to read her father so accurately?

“I’m very glad for it. Thank you too.”

It was Catherine’s turn to frown. “What for?”

“I’ve never been hugged like that before.” he whispered to her.

A smile lit up her face, and Sherlock found he liked putting those there, as much as he liked making John smile. Since when had he cared whether the people around him were happy?

John came back into the room, carrying two cups of tea, handing one to Sherlock and setting his own untouched on the coffee table.

“Time for bed, babe. It’s been a long day.”

“Awww, I wanna stay. I’m not tired.” Cathy complained, although her yawn gave her away. “What about uncle Sh’rlock?”

“Uhm… I think he’ll be heading home soon as well, although he’s more than welcome to stay here.” Sherlock could hear the unspoken words, _What if you leave and not come back?_ John didn’t want Sherlock to leave because he was afraid of waking up the next day to a world where his best friend _hadn’t_ come back to life.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, John.”

“I _do_ have to work tomorrow, though. I can’t skip another day.”

Catherine chimed in, “Oh, if uncle Sherlock comes, can I stay with him?”

John seemed to consider this for a moment. He’d seen how the two had gotten along during their trip today, chatting away about the world around them, one fascinated by the newness of it all, and the other equally fascinated by being able to share his knowledge with someone who was genuinely interested. However, he wasn’t sure whether expecting Sherlock to care for her, especially given that the detective had only just returned, plus he didn’t know her well yet, was the best idea.

Sherlock saw the indecision in John’s eyes, could almost follow the conflicting arguments as they flirted through his mind. It made him reach the decision impulsively.

“I’ll look after her.” Sherlock was almost as surprised at his own offer as John was.

Catherine, meanwhile, broke into another award winning smile.

“It’s not necessary, Anna’s more than capable.” The doctor protested.

“We’ll be fine John. Besides, I’m sure Mycroft can assign find her another job.”

“What?” _Anna?!_ John’s mind raced through everything he knew about his babysitter, how he’d hired her, her background. She couldn’t be..

“Nothing.” Sherlock’s quick response made John’s eyes widened as he mentally cursed Mycroft Holmes for his backseat manipulations.

“Sherlock…” John took a calming breath, “this is now on the list of things we still have to talk about, ok.”

Sherlock’s smile mirrored Cathy’s; he knew when he’d won. She obviously knew it too, for she jumped up and down with a “Yay!”

John sighed; seriously, the man sighed too much, Sherlock noted, another thing he’d have to change. But so far today he had won most of his battles. Granted, he’d both caused John to faint _and_ punch him, but John had come to understand his reasons for his absence, he’d won Catherine over (although it might be said, she won him over, but he wasn’t picky), he’d been able to take John over to Baker Street, and he’d just won again. All in all, it had been a good day.

“Ok, bed, young lady, now.”

“Ok!” Cathy began skipping toward her room before she caught herself, turned around and rushed over to Sherlock again.

Wrapping her small arms around his neck once more, she planted a light kiss on his cheek.

“Good night, uncle Sh’rlock. See you tomorrow.” Just as suddenly she disentangled herself from his chest and skipped over to her room.

Sherlock remained frozen again, his brain trying to process what had just happened. Dimly he heard John call out an “I’ll be there to tuck you in in a moment, sweetheart.”

John, on his part, saw Sherlock lift a hand to his cheek, as though trying to comprehend what had just happened, and he had to restrain from laughing out loud at the younger man’s face of complete bafflement.

Lifting his eyes over to John, Sherlock saw the merriment in his eyes, and took stock of his own reaction. In the end he decided he’d file it away for later analysis. Standing up from the couch, and setting his cup of tea on the coffee table next to John’s untouched one, he made his way silently to doctor.

“I’ll be going for now.”

The merriment left John’s eyes to be replaced by a sudden flash of panic, though he tried his best to quell it. No, despite John’s reassurances, he was most certainly not alright.

“I’ll return in the morning, John. I _am_ back.”

“I know.” He said tightly.

Silently both men made their way to the door, so much that still needed to be said hanging in the air around them, yet neither brave enough to admit them.

Sherlock stood in the open doorway, looked back and found himself in the second Watson embrace in as many minutes.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

This time Sherlock didn’t need to ask what for; Cathy had been right in her assessment of John.

“Thank you, John, for taking me back.”

There was so much subtext in that statement; ‘thank you for still being my friend’, ‘thank you for not hating me’, ‘thank you for making me a part of your family’, ‘thank you for not leaving me alone’.

This time Sherlock broke the hug, he knew John needed his rest if he was to get up tomorrow for work.

“Catherine’s waiting, I believe.”

“Yes, must tuck her in. See you tomorrow then.”

“Of course, John.”

Sherlock turned around and crossed the hallway, hearing the door to the Watson’s flat close behind him. As he stepped out into the cool London air he decided to amend his previous statement. Today had been a _great_ day.


	9. Chapter 9

 

Sherlock was back early the next morning as promised. Not only did he know that John needed to leave early for work, he also knew that there was a significant possibility that the doctor was currently wondering whether the previous day had been all a dream. Sherlock hated having to walk on eggshells around John, but the man was so twitchy and on edge, the detective was actually worried he might suddenly break down in front of him. Which was what drove him to volunteer to look after Catherine today. He had sensed that John was beginning to panic, undoubtedly wondering how to deal with the whole ‘best friend back from the dead’ thing while managing his job and child, so Sherlock had sprung into action without a second thought about his own child-caring capabilities. It might also have had something to do with Catherine’s loving embrace as well; it had stirred unfamiliar emotions in him.

However, it was one thing to engage with a child while her parent was largely taking care of her, and it was another thing entirely to care for her yourself. He had gotten along surprisingly well with the girl, considering she was only two years old. Sherlock had expected to a degree the problems concerning John, but he hadn’t anticipated his little girl being so interesting; he could see her mind working as it sought to understand the brand new world around her, and it fascinated him. To see everything from that perspective, and to be that curious was something he had long ago given up finding in another person.

_Maybe I should have been interacting with children long ago_ , Sherlock pondered for a moment, before dismissing the entire notion as one of the most absurd ideas he’d ever gotten. No, Catherine Helena Watson was different from them all, he was convinced. What elicited this certainty, he wasn’t sure, but he was willing to explore it.

Still, he didn’t know what to do. What if yesterday was a one off thing? What if today she just wanted to… do whatever it was toddlers did? He had no clue what that was. Would she want him to play with her? Was he capable of entertaining a child and not getting bored? He realized that if he _did_ get bored, he couldn’t simply ignore her for the rest of the day, as he did most boring things. _I should have given this more thought_. The most he’d been able to think of was to bring his violin, given that Catherine had been so enthralled by it in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, but how long that would keep her entertained, _and himself_ his mind added, he didn’t know.

Lifting his hand, Sherlock knocked sharply on the door, the sound echoing loudly in the empty corridor. A sense of déjà-vu hit Sherlock the moment the door opened. Standing in the entrance was the very girl he was suddenly apprehensive about. Unlike yesterday, she seemed much more awake this morning, all dressed up and ready, even though her reddish curls still fanned in different direction, escaping her hastily tied ponytail.

‘Uncle Sh’rlock! You’re here!’

‘Evidently’

Cathy stood on her tiptoes and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, pulling him into the flat. Feeling a bit out of his depth, Sherlock followed after. It was ironic, he decided, that despite spending the entire day before with her, chatting most amicably, he was now so nervous. She, on the other hand, seemed to have become even more comfortable with him.

‘Daddy, he’s ‘ere.’ She called in the direction of the bedroom, and for the first time Sherlock noticed that there was only one. He felt something heavy settle in his chest for just an instant.

‘Coming!’ her father called in response.

Setting his violin case on the coffee table, Sherlock turned his eyes from John and Cathy’s bedroom, to the child in question.

‘Hello.’ said Sherlock, immediately wanting to bang his head against the wall for his lack of eloquence. Cathy giggled softly, still looking up at him with her bright blue eyes, as though expecting him to do something interesting at any moment.

How did parents _cope_? How was _he_ expected to cope? What had he gotten himself into? Thankfully John emerged from his bedroom in time to save him, although he knew he’d be in the same predicament soon enough.

Like yesterday, John was dressed for work, though he would probably change his shoes and don the white coat Sherlock had seem the previous week once he got to the hospital. He seemed to have dressed in a hurry, probably due to Sherlock arriving slightly earlier than expected. As John rushed into the living room he stopped suddenly to gape at Sherlock, making the younger man wonder if up until that moment John had not been entirely certain he would be there.

The genuine smile that lighted up John’s face was wonderful he decided.

‘You’re here.’

‘I’m here.’

‘Good. Ok, ok, I should take you through it then, right?

Sherlock’s raised eyebrow did not deter John in the slightest. Gesturing to Sherlock to follow him to the small kitchen, John started going through a well-practiced list of instructions and directions. It was apparent to Sherlock that John had probably rattled this stuff often to babysitters in the past. Cathy trailed after the two of them, hanging by the kitchen entrance while John gave out information.

‘Ok, she’s already had her breakfast, she actually got up before me and woke me up. She’s quite excited you’re here.’

_As are you, John_ , Sherlock deduced.

‘So, you only have to worry about lunch, which is here- John opened the refrigerator and pointed to a sealed sandwich bag, “-and which she can have with fruit and milk.” He pointed at each item, the milk in the fridge door, and a bowl of bananas on the countertop. “Normally, Anna makes her lunch, but this will do fine for today. She can have a snack by midmorning, around 10am, and another by midafternoon, around 4pm. Those are here- he said, pointing to a jar of biscuits next to the fruit bowl. “She’s only allowed two per snack, no more.” John looked pointedly at his daughter, making it clear she wasn’t to convince her carer otherwise. He then looked back at Sherlock, and warned “Seriously, you don’t want to know what happens otherwise.” The younger man nodded mutely. John continued spouting instructions.

“I’ll be back by six with dinner. I normally work till the following day, but I’ve worked an arrangement with the hospital.”  There was a slight change in John’s voice, and Sherlock knew the man wasn’t happy with working fewer hours, as it meant a lesser pay.

“Ok, follow me, the tour is almost done.” His tone of voice was once again cheerful, and Sherlock was beginning to understand John’s state of mind. On the outside he did his best to put on a fun and happy front for his daughter, while inside he was struggling to keep his frustration hidden.

John gently pushed Cathy out of the kitchen, and gestured once more at Sherlock to follow.

“So, here we have a variety of games, puzzles, and picture books to keep any child entertained for hours.”

Sherlock looked at the pile of assorted toys he’d previously ignored on the couch. Most were old or second hand-looking and regretfully colored in different shades of pink or other equally bright colors. None looked particularly promising or engaging, except maybe the colored blocks, but he restrained himself from commenting.

“If you’re feeling brave, you can try these.” John handed him a small cardboard box that contained cards with pictures of letters, simple common objects, and short words. “Cathy here decided last week that she wanted to learn how to read, and so we got these. She’s been learning her letters, so you might have fun with that if you want.” The doctor actually looked at him smugly, almost challenging him to it. This was the John he knew, and Sherlock took the box with a nod and a glance to little Catherine.

“If you absolutely need it, my laptop’s there – he pointed to his laptop case resting on top of the pile of boxes Sherlock had noticed on his first visit. It seemed like a precarious place to put it, but then again, the flat was so tiny the only other space for it was probably John’s bedroom. “We’ve no television, as you can see, so if you _need_ to, you can watch videos and movies there. I trust you can get through my password, so I won’t bother telling you.”

John’s eyes seemed to drift away for a second, though whether it was remembering the days when Sherlock used to hack his computer, or thinking about his password, Sherlock wasn’t certain.

“Ohh,” John’s stride broke as he caught sight of the case atop his coffee table. “You’ve brought your violin. Sherlock… that’s very thoughtful.” John knew how much Sherlock valued his Strad; the notion that Sherlock cared more for John and Cathy than for the priced instrument both touched and frightened him. It was wonderful if it was true, and terrifying if not. Sherlock might care, John hoped, or he may simply be trying to win John over so that he would return to Baker Street. He knew Sherlock hated change; he liked constancy, which was why the offer to return to 221B yesterday hadn’t surprised him entirely. But if he was to return, with his daughter in tow, then it had to be for more than simply making Sherlock comfortable. The doctor didn’t want to linger on this second possibility; he didn’t want to think of Sherlock that way.

Sherlock’s answer helped dissuade him from these thoughts.

“She liked it… I didn’t know what else to bring.”

For the first time John realized that Sherlock was having second thoughts about today, not because of Cathy, but because he didn’t know what to do. _Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know what to do_! The absurdity of that almost made the corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

“That’s good. She did like it, didn’t you?” He glanced over at Catherine.

“Oh yes! Will you play like yesterday?”

Sherlock raised a thin eyebrow.

“My ability to play does not change from one day to the other.”

John chuckled, “I think she means ‘will you play the same things you played yesterday?’” He looked down at Cathy, who nodded eagerly in agreement.

“That’s wha I said! Will you?”

“If it pleases you.”

“Well, ok.” John looked at his watch, frowning at the time, although he didn’t say anything. Looking back up he plastered another smile on his face, but unlike the previous ones, Sherlock noticed, this one was strained.

“Do you have any questions? Doubts? Worries?”

The younger man looked like he did, even though he shook his head.

“No, you’ve been very thorough.”

John’s face softened into something that resembled a true smile.

“You’ll do fine. She won’t bite… much. And I’ll be back before you know it. Oh, before I forget, she usually takes a nap in the afternoon, after lunch. She didn’t have one yesterday, with all the excitement, but she might want one today.”

“I’m not a baby.” She voiced sullenly.

“You’re my baby.” John stated as though this was the most obvious and basic fact of the universe. “Besides, grownups like naps too, don’t we?” The doctor looked to Sherlock in support.

“Not all grownups, but your father certainly does. He used to nap frequently between cases, and sometimes during.”

John sent a glare in Sherlock’s direction. “Yes well, if she gets fussy just lay her down on the bed, she’ll be fine.”

Catherine crossed her arms and pouted silently as though accepting the challenge to remain awake for the entire day.

John shook his head at her antics, and Sherlock noticed how much she looked like John; right down to her mannerisms.

“Well.. I’ve got to go. If you’ve any trouble, my number and the hospital’s are on the pad in the counter. You’ll both have a great day, you’ll see.”

“It’ll be loads o’fun!” Cathy voiced excitedly.

John headed for the door, the other two following behind. Shouldering his bag, John crouched down to pull Catherine into a tight hug, burying his face in her hair. Pulling back he kissed her cheek and mock-whispered, “Take care of uncle Sherlock, ok.”

“Yes!” she promised.

Standing up and looking at his friend, John conveyed the same sentiment wordlessly. If someone had told him a week ago not only that Sherlock Holmes would return from the dead, in a manner of speaking, but that he would be leaving his daughter in his care for an entire day, he would have had them committed.

Turning around, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway, aware of the two pairs of eyes watching from the doorway. He was about to turn back to wave, when his landlord appeared out of nowhere in front of him.

“Doctor Watson, what a pleasure. When were you planning on paying this month’s rent then?” he said gruffly.

John’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times, and he felt the color drain out of his face.

“I.. Mr. Prowse is it due already? It’s only the first week of the month, I’ve always had until the end of the week-

“And you’re always late with it.” The landlord was much taller and broader than John, making the smaller man have to tilt his head upwards when he spoke to him. Despite his best efforts to remind himself that he was a seasoned veteran, and that he had faced down criminals much more threatening than this pudgy man, John couldn’t help but feel intimidated.

“Yes well, things have come up that have delayed me, but I’ve always paid.”

“And this month, you’ll pay on time. I want it by tomorrow, no excuses. Have a lovely day.” The large man left just as suddenly as he had appeared.

John swallowed and nodded mutely, thinking of how he was going to pay by tomorrow. He had the money, enough to pay the rent that is, but then he wouldn’t have enough for food. It wasn’t until the second week of the month that he made enough to pay for both, which meant he always had less available for each month.

It would be fine, they had enough food to go for one more week. They’d be fine if he moved things around. Everything was _fine_ , he kept repeating to himself.

“Come back to Baker Street, John.”

The doctor almost jumped out of his skin upon hearing Sherlock’s voice next to him.

“Sheesh, Sherlock, make some noise next time. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Unlikely, you might be underweight, but you’re still relatively healthy. Besides, if you were going to go into cardiac arrest, it would have happened yesterday.”

John’s mouth hanged partly open as he gazed in astonishment at Sherlock. Raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, he tried to bring his thoughts back to reality.

“Yes, well, don’t sneak up on me like that, ok.”

Sherlock grunted an affirmative reply, before insisting again. “Come back with me.”

“Sherlock..” John sighed, almost desperately, “I said I’d think about it. I’m thinking about it, alright? It’s not that easy-”

“It’s very easy, just say yes. You don’t have to stay in this place. Besides, you’re paying more than this dump is worth. In my opinion it should be leveled.”

John’s eyes snapped to Sherlock, and the detective knew he’d said the wrong thing.

“This _dump_ is all I can afford. I was _grateful_ to find a place that was relatively safe and cheap. It’s not my fault most clinics and hospitals aren’t willing to hire an invalid ex-soldier with a bloody twitch in his hand, and that the ones who are will only give me basic work that barely pays. I’m doing the best I can, alright.”

“Please John, I didn’t mean.. I know how hard it’s been.”

“You know nothing.” John kept his voice low, not wanting to alert the neighbors, or frighten Catherine who was no doubt pressed against the door inside the flat, trying to listen in to their conversation. Thankfully Sherlock had remembered to close the door behind him.

John’s entire body shook slightly, as he strained to control his emotions. All the anger and frustration he felt wanted to come off of him in a tidal wave, but he had to rein it in. He knew he wasn’t being fair to Sherlock, who only wanted to help, in his own way.

“I’m sorry” the both of them said, at the same time.

They both stared long at each other, and silence reigned for a few heartbeats, before John took a deep breath and shook his head.

“I know, and I didn’t mean it. Look, can we talk about this later? I’m actually quite late by now. I’ll be lucky if I don’t lose my job.”

Sherlock merely nodded.

“See you tonight. Take care, and Sherlock…”

Grey eyes lifted to stare into his.

“Have fun today, ok.” Sherlock heard the unspoken words, _Have fun, because I can’t; make her laugh and smile, because I can’t be here._ So he nodded once again, and watched John exit the building.

\--

Sherlock entered the Watson’s flat again, little Catherine jumping back to avoid the swinging door.

“Hear anything of interest?”

“Too low.” She answered without missing a beat.

Sherlock’s lips twitched, before realizing once again that he was going to spend the entire day with this child… his _niece_. How long could he hold her attention, and more important, how long could she hold his. Three years running through the continent had not diminished Sherlock’s need for being entertained. If anything, the constant work had made him even more incapable of handling boredom.

Here he was, inviting John back to Baker Street, and if he couldn’t get along with his child, all of his plans would fall apart.

He looked down to the girl, finding her staring intently at him once again.

“So.. what would you like to do first?” They’d gotten along so well yesterday, but Sherlock was clueless about how to proceed today.

The morning progressed in this fashion. Sherlock would ask her what she wanted to do, Cathy would suggest one of the games her father had selected, Sherlock would attempt to play it, before deeming it to be drivel. Most were simple learning games like matching tiles or story books, while the others consisted of puzzles and building blocks of one type of another. Sherlock supposed the purpose for these toys were to develop a child’s motor controls and skills of association, as well as their creativity, but they weren’t designed to hold an adult’s attention for long.

“Don’t you have other toys?” Weren’t children supposed to have many toys? Somewhere in the remote reaches of his mind, Sherlock remembered having had plenty of toys as a kid, even if he seldom played with any. He had been much more interested in crawling about in the garden digging for worms and insects, bringing them inside and looking at them through his magnifying glass. The glass had been a gift from Mycroft, who being nine or ten at the time, had simply handed the instrument to his baby brother and told him to do something interesting for a change.

Maybe he could get one for little Catherine, then he would take her around the neighborhood, or to the park again, and show her how to have proper fun. But for now they were stuck in John’s tiny flat, with only whatever was at hand.

“I’ve a tea set, and a doll, and a teddy. Wanna play with those?”

Sherlock thought about that, and could not for the life of him figure out what could be entertaining about either of those.

“I don’t think so.”

Cathy’s frown intensified. “Daddy likes playing.”

“I’m sure he does.”

Looking around Sherlock espied the cardboard box John had left on the coffee table, next to Sherlock’s violin case.

“Perhaps we should give these a try.” He said uncertainly. While he had been smug as he accepted John’s challenge earlier, after spending the last couple of hours attempting game after game, he was beginning to seriously doubt this had been a good idea at all.

“Yes! These are fun!” She exclaimed, but Sherlock doubted their definitions of fun were interchangeable.

Picking up the box, Sherlock took the cards out and inspected them. Cathy joined him on the couch, sitting by his arm so she could see the cards as well.

“See, they’ve got letters, and shapes and colors. I’m learning to read them. I’m only on the letters though.”

“How do they work?”

Cathy took one card in her hand, “Like this,” she showed him the card, “what is this?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “The letter ‘A’”

“Yep! See, it’s easy.”

“Is this the best way to learn one’s letters?”

Cathy shrugged, “Daddy got’em.”

“I see.” He supposed he might give it a try; they had certainly tried anything else. He needed something to drive away the boredom that was threatening to sneak in.

“Do you do them in order?”

Cathy nodded, “Yes, why?”

“It doesn’t seem to be an effective system. Can you recite the alphabet?”

“Yes, some!” She was clearly excited about her success, and Sherlock had to admit it was a little impressive for a child her age.

“Go on then.”

Smiling, Cathy started reciting tentatively, “A, B, C, D, E, F, G H, I, J, K- I forget what comes next.” She whispered, as though this was a secret.

“L” he whispered back, humoring her actions.

“L.. M, N.. O.. I can’t remember the rest.” She admitted with a frown.

“Well, it still proves my point. You know the order by heart, or some of it at least, which means identifying the cards which also in order is not that great a challenge.”

The look she gave him was one of complete confusion, and he realized she hadn’t understood a word he said. _She’s a child you idiot, two-years old at that, use simpler language_ , for some reason his inner voice sounded like John Watson.

“I mean, it will be more interesting to do them out of order.”

Cathy beamed at that, she loved doing things differently.

Mixing the alphabet cards, Sherlock selected one and showed it to her, noting how she bit her lip as she tried to identify the letter. She traced it slowly in the air with her finger, before loudly declaring it to be the letter ‘J’.

“Very good, can you tell me a word that starts with ‘J’?”

Cathy frowned at her uncle, “That’s not how it works.”

“If you can’t think of one…” Sherlock shrugged, and Cathy huffed at his challenge as she quickly thought hard of a word that started with ‘J’. She looked around the small cluttered living room, softly saying ‘j’ to herself. Just when Sherlock was about to tell her to forget it, and suggest they move to another letter, her eyes grew wide and she exclaimed excitedly,

“Daddy!”

Sherlock was disappointed, evidently she had not gotten the idea.

“Catherine, I’m afraid that starts with a ‘D’, not a ‘J.’”

He was therefore surprised when she gave him a look that closely resembled the one he gave the forensic idiots at Scotland Yard.

“I _know_ that. I meant his name.”

Sherlock wanted to kick himself, not only for being so dense, but for underestimating her. He would be careful not to do it again.

“Of course! John! Yes, Catherine, very good.”

Cathy beamed at the praise, and quickly pointed for him to show her another card.

Obligingly, Sherlock pulled out another random card. “Which one is this then?”

Cathy’s eyes sparkled as she giggled and immediately answered, “ _That’s_ ‘D’!”

“Can you think of words that start with ‘D’?”

She gave him a knowing look, merriment dancing in her young eyes, but she cheekily answered “Dog.”

“Good, can you think of another word?”

Cathy bit her lip again, “Doll!”

“Come now, can you think of something more interesting?” He wasn’t sure how far he could push the girl, but he didn’t want to underestimate her again.

She didn’t disappoint, although her answer confused him momentarily once again.

“That.” Twisting to peer over the couch, she pointed to the small table in the kitchen behind them.

“To what precisely are you pointing, child?”

“There, the flow’rs. I don’t know how to say it… but it starts with ‘D’. ‘S a big word.’” Her eyes still sparkled with excitement. She clearly thought the fact that she remembered the word, even though she couldn’t pronounce it counted for something.

“Ah.. do you mean ‘dandelions’?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes! That’s it!” Very proud to have come up with three words, four if you counted the one for ‘J’, Cathy took the cards from Sherlock, sorting through them. At first he was confused by her actions, and he realized that this seemed to be a default state of being when it came to little Catherine Helena Watson.

Selecting a card, Cathy looked at it closely, tracing its pattern carefully before asking, “It’s your turn, tell me a word that starts with ‘G’.”

Sherlock nodded approvingly at her initiative; already she was adapting and changing the rules of the game as it went along, whereas before she’d been willing to settle for the basic boring rules.

“Gyroscope.” He answered with a smirk.

“Did you make that up?”

“Most certainly not.” He couldn’t help but chuckle at her question.

“Whas’it mean?”

“A device that can spin on its axis as well as turn in different directions.”

Cathy gaped at him for a couple of seconds before giggling as well. She didn’t understand a single thing he said, but she accepted it must be a real word. Quickly she countered with “Girl!”

Catching on to her game, Sherlock replied, “Geometrical.”

“Grass!”

“Guillotine.”

Cathy’s brows joined in concentration for a few seconds, “Glad!”

“Gubernatorial” Sherlock didn’t miss a beat, although he was finding it harder and harder not to burst out laughing.

Cathy was already beside herself, almost doubled up in laughter. Her eyes lit up as she thought of her next word, “Game!”

“Gastroenterology” Sherlock actually laughed out loud, the silliness of their game and the infectiousness of her laughter getting to him. As he did, Cathy suddenly pointed a finger at him in between her chuckles and exclaimed,

“Giggle!”

Which had them both laughing outright. Their game progressed in a similar fashion through several more letters, until a look at the clock had Sherlock stopping the game to hand Cathy her morning snack.

“I think that’s enough of that for now.” Sherlock placed the cards back into their box, while Cathy eagerly ate her biscuits.

“That was so much fun!” She mumbled, her mouth full of food.

“I think your father would tell you to mind your manners, and not speak with a full mouth. But I also share your sentiment.”

Cathy nodded and concentrated on finishing her snack so she could continue talking.

“What would you like to do now then?” the last game had worked out better than he could have expected, but now they were back to square one.

“Will you play?”

Sherlock was about to ask what, when he noticed that she was looking at his violin.

“Of course. Finish your snack first.”

Cathy nodded and hurriedly stuffed her second biscuit into her mouth.

“However, please do not choke yourself on it. I don’t think John would appreciate that.”

Once she was finished, Sherlock took out his violin, placing it on his shoulder and checking it was tuned to his liking.

“Is it alright if I draw?” she asked hesitantly.

Sherlock glanced at her picture books, and he nodded silently at her.

With her settled on the floor with a box of crayons and one of her picture books open before her, Sherlock began to play softly. As he played, he caught her staring at him more often than she focused on her coloring, making him play as sweetly and perfectly as he could.

This lasted for about ten minutes, before Sherlock’s phone suddenly rang, interrupting his playing. He ignored it.

It rang again.

“Your phone?”

“Catherine, you should ask in full sentences. ‘Is that your phone?’ or better yet, since you know it to be my phone, you should say ‘You should pick up your phone’ or ‘Please make it stop ringing.’ Any is better than just ‘your phone.’”

Cathy wasn’t sure she understood everything her uncle Sherlock said, but nodding worked whenever her daddy said things she couldn’t understand, and it seemed to work for her uncle as well. Still, his cellphone kept ringing.

Sighing dramatically, Catherine leaned her head on her arm, making Sherlock chuckle softly. Finally giving up he put down his violin, took the phone out of his pocket and looked at the caller id. Only two people had his new number, so he wasn’t surprised to find that it was Lestrade calling. Sherlock had paid him a visit the week before, while he was scouting John out. He knew the doctor would be upset when he found out that so many people had known of his return prior to him, but it couldn’t be helped. Sherlock had wanted things to go smoothly between him and John, which meant preparing properly for his visit. Granted, his plans had gone to hell the moment John saw him standing in his doorway, but let it not be said Sherlock didn’t try.

If Lestrade was calling now, it could only mean a case. Sherlock debated answering, looking between his charge and his phone as though the solution would magically appear from one of them. In the end, he pressed the ‘answer’ button, and lifted the small black device to his ear.

“However did you manage the last three years?” he said as way of greeting.

_“Good morning to you too. Got something that might interest you.”_

Sherlock didn’t reply at first, his eyes darting between a point near the door and Cathy.

_“Sherlock?”_

“Surely you can handle it?”

_“I thought you wanted a case. Hell, you outright demanded I give you cases again last week in my office.”_

“I’m busy today.”

_“It’s a locked-room robbery, everybody is stumped at how it could have happened.”_

Sherlock loved locked-room crimes, they tended to be clever and interesting, like solving a puzzle without turning all the pieces over. But he was supposed to be taking care of Catherine. The morning had begun hesitantly, and even it had turned much more agreeable, he was becoming restless again. On the other hand, if they had already managed half of the morning they surely could manage the rest of the day. On the _other_ other hand, the thrill of a new case was already setting his skin abuzz with excitement.

_“Sherlock?”_

Lestrade’s voice snapped Sherlock out of his thoughts, remembering he still held the mobile to his ear.

“Is the crime scene grisly? Anyone dead?”

_“Are you seriously asking me that, Sherlock? Hell, you’re worse than before.”_

“Is it, Lestrade?”

_“No, I told you, it’s a robbery. But that doesn’t make it any less of a crime, or any less complicated. Look, if you think it’s boring then fine, but don’t come begging to me for cases in the future.”_

“I think you’ll find it’s you who tends to come to me more often. Where is it?”

_“What? Where’s what?”_

“The crime scene Lestrade, what else?”

The Detective Inspector gave Sherlock the address. _It’s not too far_ , Sherlock thought.

_“Does that mean you’re coming?”_

Sherlock looked back at Catherine, currently sprawled on the floor, softly humming the tune he had been playing, while she colored in her picture book.

“I’ll be there soon.” he replied, before hanging up, wondering whether he’d made the right decision.


	10. Chapter 10

 

John was quickly moving from ‘restless’ to ‘worried’, and he knew he would soon be in a full panic-mode. He had already tried calling his flat about two dozen times, but had received no answer so far. Why wasn’t Sherlock answering? Had something happened? Had they gone out? Why wouldn’t Sherlock have told him? What if something happened to Cathy? Surely Sherlock would have called him. John cursed himself for the tenth or eleventh time in as many minutes. He hadn’t asked Sherlock for his new mobile number; he simply hadn’t thought he might need it given that neither Sherlock nor Cathy would leave the flat. _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!_ He should have known better, he kept repeating over and over.

John looked at his watch again, pacing back and forward, his breathing becoming more frantic with each step. Why wouldn’t Sherlock answer the damned phone?!

John tried breathing in and out, he knew he was probably overreacting, it was probably nothing; it _had_ to be nothing, _please, let it be nothing_. _Please, please, please_ , his mind kept repeating like a mantra, and his thoughts were fixed on Cathy, willing her to be alright. Not since Mary’s illness and death had he felt so afraid, and John knew if he didn’t calm down he would probably go into hysterics, which wouldn’t help anyone.

_Let’s think about this rationally_. ‘Rationally?!’ a voice in his mind shouted, ‘this is your child you’re talking about.’ _Maybe Sherlock took her to the park._ ‘Why wouldn’t he call you?’ _Sherlock is incredibly absentminded when he wants to be, maybe he just forgot_. ‘Maybe he didn’t have time?’ _Maybe they are at home, but they haven’t been able to answer the phone_. ‘For the past fifteen minutes?!’

John’s thoughts kept going back and forth as he continued his pacing in the small doctor’s lounge he had been in when he took his lunch break. He had tried calling over twenty times already, but the line simply kept ringing with no one answering. Each time he dialed the number and received no answer felt like a hand was tightening around his heart, and robbing him of breath.

Suddenly, like a lightning bolt jolting through his brain, John realized who he should call, and he cursing at himself even more for not realizing it sooner. Quickly hitting speed dial, he waited for the British Government to pick up his private phone.

“Come on, come on, come on, pick up, pick up, pick up.” John mumbled frantically as the line rang.

“John! What is it? Is something wrong?” was the immediate response he got. John seldom called Mycroft’s private number, and much less during work hours.

“Where are they?”

_“Where are… who?”_

“Cathy and Sherlock? Where are they, Mycroft?”

_“Hold on a moment John, I’m finding out right now. John, listen to me, breathe, alright, just breathe. Whatever it is will be alright.”_

“Mycroft, don’t bloody tell me to breathe. Just find out where the hell my daughter is.”

_“I’m doing just that, John. Could you tell me what happened in the meantime.”_

John took a breath then, trying to keep his voice even. He came to a stop in front of the large windows in the lounge, closing his eyes as he explained.

“After yesterday, Sherlock offered to take care of Cathy for the day, while I went to work. I accepted given that they seemed to get along splendidly well yesterday, and that Sherlock revealed Anna worked for you. We’ll discuss that particular detail later.

“I’m at work, in my lunch break, and I decided to call home, to see how they were doing, but they’re- John’s voice cracked slightly, and he breathed deeply again to control it, “they’re not answering. I’ve been trying to reach them for over ten minutes now, Mycroft. They aren’t there. I know they aren’t there, so where are they? Where’s my girl?”

John could hear Mycroft typing away at his computer on the other side of the line, and he closed his eyes as though he could will the elder Holmes’ computer to work faster.

“Please, Mycroft, where is she?”

Suddenly he heard Mycroft sigh in relief, and realized that he had succeeded in scaring the older man as well. John didn’t care though, he just wanted, _needed_ , to know Cathy was safe.

_“Calm down John, they’re alright.”_

John sighed in relief as well, his forehead resting against the window pane. If Mycroft was certain, that somehow made it true. Briefly John wondered when he had begun trusting the man so completely.

“Where?”

_“From the information I’ve gathered, Lestrade contacted my brother sometime this morning-_

“You mean to tell me Sherlock took my daughter to a crime scene?” John’s voice had gone from panic to relief, but now it took a quick and sudden turn into rage.

_“Yes, it would seem that way. John? John?_

The doctor still had the phone pressed against his ear, but he was now on the move. Having bolted out of the doctor’s lounge, he was now rushing down toward the hospital entrance.

“Tell me where they are.”

_“Now, John, they are safe, it’s a simple enough case, she’s in no danger whatsoever.” Mycroft tried to sound appeasing._

“Tell me where they are _now_.” On the other hand, John’s tone of voice _was_ dangerous, and Mycroft, half-way across London, suddenly felt a twinge of empathy for his reckless younger brother.

With a sigh, he relayed the address to the doctor, hearing as the man hailed a cab and all but shouted the directions at the driver. That was the last thing Mycroft heard; it seemed John had decided he wasn’t necessary anymore now that he had somewhere to go, and he hoped the doctor would be able to calm down enough during the ride so that he wouldn’t pummel Sherlock too badly.

With that thought, he picked up his phone again and dialed his brother.

\--

Sherlock vaguely acknowledged that his phone was ringing, but the case was far too intriguing to be talking calls. Besides, no one except Lestrade and his brother had his current mobile number, so it had to be Mycroft calling, which could easily wait. Sherlock was having too much fun showing off for Cathy, who applauded, laughed and giggled merrily each time he made Anderson and the rest of Scotland Yard look like idiots.

He was just about to explain something particularly important about the robber’s identity and how he was able to take the jewel that had been locked away safely when Lestrade interrupted him by shoving his own mobile in Sherlock’s face.

“It’s for you.”

“What? Lestrade, can’t you see I’m busy? You _did_ want me to solve this pretty little case for you, did you not?”

“It’s your brother.”

“Tell Mycroft I’m busy.”

“He says it’s important, something about John.”

“Daddy?” Cathy’s eyes perked up at the mention of her father. She had been engrossed with looking around the room for some clue her uncle had mentioned, but now she watched the consulting detective attentively.

Frowning, Sherlock finally took Lestrade’s phone.

“What is it?” he spoke into the mobile.

_“Sherlock, you are an idiot.”_

“Mycroft, did you just interrupt my case to insult me?”

_“Brother dear, you are in trouble, so I advise you listen close and well. For reasons that escape me, you decided to respond to Lestrade’s call and drag Miss Watson to a crime scene.”_

“I did not drag anyone-

_“Shut up and listen, because you don’t have much time to prepare. And please keep in mind that I believe that everything you get from this you very well deserve; the only reason I am warning you is out of family duty. John had been trying to call home for the last ten minutes”_

“Oh… oh.” Sherlock’s eyes widened fractionally as he realized what Mycroft meant.

_“Exactly. Sherlock, can you even begin to realize the panic attack you practically sent him into? When he called me, for a moment I thought I was back to a year ago after Mary, that’s how bad he sounded. And what’s worse, I didn’t know where you were either. Can you imagine what he must have felt? It’s his child, Sherlock!”_

“I expected we’d be back by the time John returned home; I didn’t consider he might call-

_“He’s on his way over.”_ Mycroft interrupted his brother’s pointless explanations.

“What?”

_“I had to give him the address to the crime scene, the man was out of his mind with worry. He’ll be there in a few minutes.”_

\--

John knew his cab had arrived at the right address from the police cars he recognized parked along the street. He practically flew out, barely noticing as he overpaid the cabbie, and dashing through the front door of the residence, completely ignoring the protests of the officers standing there. As he burst into the main room he saw Sherlock approaching leading Cathy toward him.

As she saw him she broke into a huge smile, let go of Sherlock’s hand, and ran straight into his arms, which he wrapped around her small body in an instant. He lifted her up to his chest, closing his eyes as he held her close. John tried to appear calm and collected, but inside he just wanted to hold his little girl and cry in relief, even though he knew he was overreacting. But he had been so worried; in one solitary instant, fear had taken root in his brain and even after he knew she was safe and sound, the panic wouldn’t leave him until he saw her and held her close.

“Daddy! I thought you were at work.”

John took a breath to keep his voice steady, he couldn’t scare her. “Yeah, I was, but I just wanted to see you too much. So I thought I’d come find you.”

“Uncle Sherlock’s on a ‘venture’, we’re helping Greg- I mean, the de-tec-ti-ve ‘spector” At any other time he would have found her words amusing. As it was, John spared a glance in Sherlock’s direction, who was watching the whole thing with mounting apprehension.

“Yes, so I heard.” Cathy didn’t notice her father’s dangerous tone of voice, but Sherlock did.

“John-” he started to whisper, only to be cut off by a dark look from the doctor. Sherlock was startled not only at the pain and anger, but at the fear still reflected in John’s eyes. He truly had not considered for a moment that John might call the flat, that he might wonder where they were. And even in that event, he had not anticipated in the least how that could make John feel. Of course he’d be scared, Sherlock cursed himself, how could he not? It was a grave error on his part, but the worst part was he didn’t know how he could fix it.

Catherine, oblivious to the mounting tension in the room, continued her narrative of her exciting adventures.

“Daddy, uncle Sh’rlock’s so cool! Someone took something that they couldn’t ‘ave tooked, and he’s ‘elping to find who was it, and I’m ‘elping uncle Sh’rlock! I’m looking for a clue! Like in the stories!” The child’s exuberant energy and buoyant joy calmed John down marginally, the fear he had had at the possibility of never hearing this again was eclipsed by her excited chatter, and he found himself unconsciously smiling at her. John wanted nothing more than to kiss her face and hug her close, and bask in her contagious laugher, but he settled for laughing hesitantly at her antics. The lump in his throat loosened, even if it did not entirely disappear.

“That’s nice Cathy.” He hoped his voice didn’t betray his barely controlled emotions. Briefly he considered the possibility that he was going slightly mad. Otherwise, how was it possible to feel immeasurable happiness, utter fear, and blinding anger in such a short period of time so close together? _For a moment this felt like it was a year ago_ , his thoughts echoing Mycroft’s earlier ones, _or even three years ago_. _God! How can a person live like this?_ This brief question flew unhindered through his mind before he could contain it, and if it hadn’t been for Cathy’s sweet giggles, he wondered whether his face would have crumbled there and then.

Sherlock, watching indecisively from afar caught these emotions as they danced unhindered across the doctor’s face. _How much pain must he continue to cause his friend?_

Finally crossing the room, the tall detective approached the two Watsons. He was aware that Lestrade and his officers had stopped their proceedings in order to watch what would happen between them, clearly sensing the tension between the two parties. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock called John’s attention back to himself.

“John, why don’t you let Lestrade take Catherine for a couple of minutes, I think we need to talk.” He knew that if he wasn’t the one to ask, John wouldn’t do it. At the level of stress and _distress_ the doctor was in, he was more than likely to take Cathy away without another word or second glance at Sherlock. If he did, it might destroy what remained of their unstable friendship.

Predictably, John’s arms tightened around Catherine’s small form, and his eyes flashed with a protective fierceness that would have sent a lesser man running for his life. Sherlock, through bravery or foolishness he wasn’t sure, stayed his ground. He did, however, lower his gaze, making himself as small and nonthreatening as possible. Cathy’s eager recounting slowly trickled down to silence as her perceptive mind became aware that something was going on.

“Please John.” Sherlock whispered so only the three of them could hear. His words conveyed more than just a plea, or so he hoped; they also said _I’m sorry, please give me a chance to apologize_.

John gazed at his friend. He was still his friend; he couldn’t distance himself from that; this man, who was really more than a friend. Part of his brain told him to leave, to take his child and rush back to his flat and never let her out of his sight again. The other part told him to listen to Sherlock. Three years ago he might have listened to the first voice, but now, after all they had been through, after having thought he had lost Sherlock forever only to have him returned to him safe and, more importantly, alive, could he truly throw it away?

Lestrade stepped out of the circle of police officers that had formed around the pair. He might not be the world’s only consulting detective genius, but he had been able to easily deduce what must have happened between the two men. He also knew they needed to talk about it as soon as possible. Sherlock’s resurrection had undoubtedly sent John into a brand new state of confusion, making Greg wander briefly whether the man would ever catch a break. It meant that their relationship was likely to be rocky at best, and Greg didn’t know if Sherlock was capable of understanding at all. He hoped the man _had_ developed a bit of empathy in the intervening years, even if he hadn’t learned that you didn’t take other people’s children on ‘outings’ without telling them first.

The DI walked over to the doctor, and he wasn’t sure, but for a moment he thought he heard Sherlock actually whisper ‘please’.

Standing next to the man who had become a close friend during these past three years, Greg kept his voice light and unthreatening.

“Sherlock’s right. Why don’t you leave this little lady with me and you two catch up?” He knew they had ‘caught up’ already, but it was the only indirect way he could think of saying it.

“But daddy just got ‘ere.” Cathy tightened her hold around John’s neck, making John’s heart flutter painfully in his chest.

“I know honey, and he’s not going anywhere. It’s only, he and your ‘uncle’ Sherlock need to talk about some things. Don’t you want to stay with me? We’ll go back to searching for that clue Sherlock said we had to find.”

“Do you really?” Cathy looked at her daddy intently.

John felt he was being cornered, not only by Sherlock and Greg, but by his own mind. He had to give Sherlock a chance, _and then punch his lights out_. That sounded like a good plan, but it implied letting go of his daughter, which somehow felt about as easy a thing to do as chopping off his own arm. Reluctantly he answered her.

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

Cathy looked straight at him with her bright blue eyes, so like his own, and a small frown on her forehead. Her gaze seemed to pierce straight through him. Leaning against him, Catherine whispered something in his ear, which made John’s eyes close involuntarily. When he opened them again she was still gazing at him with that worried look on her open face. Softly he answered her question. _[Are you sad?]_

“Yes, a bit.”

Cathy looked between her father and Sherlock, who was watching the exchange with intrigue and no small degree of confusion.

Leaning again, Cathy whispered something else that only John could hear. He then also looked briefly at Sherlock, and tried to suppress the sad smile that rose to his lips. _[Will uncle Sh’rlock help?]_

“Maybe.” He whispered back.

Cathy seemed to consider this for a moment, before nodding and disentangling her arms from her father’s grip. John almost faltered, but Lestrade swiftly came in and took Catherine before he could voice any protest.

With a glance, the DI signaled all the remaining officers and forensic experts leave the room, exiting himself with Miss Watson in his arms, and leaving the two friends alone in the empty room.

\--

“John, I’m sorry-” he began, but John cut him off.

“What were you thinking?” he kept his voice low, but he might as well have been yelling at Sherlock, who flinched at the doctor’s words.

“Lestrade called and I thought it might be a good distraction-”

“Distraction? From what? You got bored that easily, did you? You had to drag my child to a crime scene?! What is wrong with you?”

John’s bitter words hit Sherlock more sharply than he thought they would.

“She wasn’t in any danger. I would never have put her in in danger, John.”

John ran his hands through his hair in desperation.

“Sherlock, can you even imagine what it felt like? To call my own home where I expected to find my little girl and get no answer? I-” John lifted his eyes upwards, trying to get his breathing under control again. _Too much, too much. I can’t handle this_ , he thought.

Sherlock took a step closer, but John took an equal step backwards.

“Stop. Please just stop. Just stay there.” John’s voice was shaky, with anger and desperation.

“I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry you’re hurting, and I’m sorry I’ve hurt you. I can only apologize, and you know that’s not easy for me.”

John’s huffed chuckle was something halfway between a hysterical laugh and a sob, and he hid his face in his hands as he tried to regain his composure. He dug his fingers into his eyes, trying to stop feeling altogether.

Sherlock took advantage and drew in closer, gently placing his hands around John’s forearms, lowering them slowly so John would look at him.

“Please, I, .. I didn’t mean any harm by it. I was getting bored, it’s true. But I thought it was the perfect distraction for us both. I didn’t think it through. Please, John.”

Even though Sherlock held his arms, John only stared at the floor.

“Can you understand how afraid I am of losing her?” he confessed in a whisper. He had lost so many things in his life; his parents, his comrades, Sherlock and his dear wife. The thought that something could happen to his Cathy was more than he could bear.

“She was always safe. I disappeared for three years to protect you; don’t you think I’d keep your daughter safe as well?”

John responded with a slow nod and suddenly leaned in and rested his head against Sherlock’s chest, stunning the young detective who still held John’s arms.

Taking another shaky breath, John whispered, “I really should punch you for scaring me like this. Punch you to a bloody pulp, and tell you to leave me alone and never come back. God help me, I can’t. I can’t.”

John sounded so lost and tired that Sherlock had the sudden impulse to wrap his arms around his friend, _his brother_ , and tell him that everything would be alright. He refrained from it, these awkward emotions confusing him as well.

“You can still punch me. Though I confess I am eternally grateful you haven’t pushed me away. I.. I don’t know what I’d do if you did.” Sherlock swallowed thickly, trying to find the words that would let John _know_.

John nodded again against Sherlock’s chest. They had never been this close before, the closest they’d gotten to each other had been running for their lives through dirty London alleyways while handcuffed together. Sherlock knew then that if John was showing this much emotion, physically voicing a need for comfort, then he must be hiding so much more under the surface.

He wanted to ask the doctor whether this meant he was forgiven for his lapse in judgment, but he didn’t dare. Instead he let go of John’s arms, making the shorter man take a step backwards from him.

John took a deep breath, and Sherlock noticed his eyes were somewhat red, although he hadn’t cried at all.

“Has..uhm, Cathy had her lunch?”

“Yes. I brought it along; she ate it while I inspected the crime scene.”

“Lestrade let her in?”

“It’s only a robbery, very cleverly done robbery, almost artistic, but that’s all it is. I wouldn’t have come if it was something more serious.”

_Well, at least he thought that far ahead_ , John concluded. He would have been beyond angry if he had let Cathy see a dead body. But deep down John had known Lestrade wouldn’t have allowed it, so he hadn’t been _that_ worried regarding that front. Angry, but not as livid as he would have been otherwise.

“I’ll take Cathy home now.” John’s voice sounded tired, his raging emotions leaving him exhausted.

“I’ll tell Lestrade we’re leaving.”

“You don’t have to leave, wouldn’t you rather solve this case.”

“I think this case might be detrimental to my health.” Sherlock replied with a subtle smirk.

Sherlock was making an effort, John knew, even though he was driving him mad in the process. His nerves were still frayed and on edge, but he couldn’t let go of Sherlock, even if he knew the detective might actually succeed in driving him insane. Like Cathy, Sherlock was a lifeline, a sudden saving lifeline to happiness, which he couldn’t deny any more than he could deny his child.

Sighing more easily now, John walked in the direction Lestrade had left. “Cathy love, it’s time to go” he called.

Lestrade returned, Catherine practically pulling on his arm. Letting her go, the girl laughed herself at her father once more. He picked her up easily, propping her up on his hip and quickly kissing her forehead. “Daddy, do we have to go?”

“You’re leaving then?” Lestrade interjected, looking at John.

John opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock beat him to it.

“Yes, we are.”

Bafflement written on his face, Lestrade turned to the consulting detective.

“You too? But what about the case?”

“Oh, that’s easy enough. I’m sure you can solve it in no time. I will tell you that the jewel was not taken last night. It probably hasn’t been in the safe for a whole week, at least.”

“But Mr. Wilkinson swears he saw it last night, it was there. His maid saw it as well, as did his wife.”

“I would inspect the safe a bit closer if I was you. Also, question Mr. Wilkinson about it. Wonderful piece of craftsmanship, that safe.” Sherlock smirked smugly again, before turning around and leaving a gaping Detective Inspector behind.

John shook his head, and thanked Greg for his patience.

“I’ve a feeling you’re going to need it much more than me, mate.” The inspector replied.

As John followed the retreating form of Sherlock Holmes, he found himself agreeing with that sentiment.


	11. Chapter 11

 

“How did’e do it then?” Cathy asked eagerly from her perch in John’s arms, when they caught up with Sherlock, who was currently flagging down a cab for them.

“He? Oh, specially engineered safe; reflective surfaces and probably a micro projector of some kind.” He answered quickly.

Cathy’s blank expression gave him pause.

“It’s… a fake safe. He made his wife and his maid believe the jewel was still there, but it was only a false image.” Sherlock looked back at Catherine, whose face was scrunched up in concentration, even though he could tell she didn’t understand.

“He tricked them. He made them think it was there but it wasn’t. It was just a false image, a projection.”

 “Oh, like a holgran?”

“A what?” John asked in confusion, looking down at her as they climbed into the cab Sherlock had hailed.

“A holgran! Like the box with the fairy!” she answered excitedly.

“Box with the…” John’s eyes suddenly lit up. “A hologram?”

Cathy nodded in agreement.

Sherlock looked at them both questioningly across their seat, but John only had eyes for his daughter.

“The box with the fairy, of course. Cathy, I didn’t know you remembered that.” John’s voice was soft and trailing, like he was drifting into a memory.

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock hated being left out of a conversation.

Smiling ruefully, John explained, “Uhm… Mary had one of those little laser engraved crystal cubes; it had a fairy holding its child. I bought it for her when she was pregnant and she used to keep it in the nursery.”

“It was really pretty, the hol-holg-”

“Hologram” John told her softly. “Where did you learn that word anyways?” he asked, almost hesitantly.

“Mommy told me once.” She answered just as softly, looking at her father worriedly.

Sherlock saw the emotions that drifted through John face, and noted that while sad, they didn’t seem to be despairing. Instead, he somehow looked happy.

“And you remembered?” a small smile graced his features.

Cathy nodded then frowned, “Where is it now?”

“It’s safe, I was planning on giving it to you when you were older… but maybe..” Looking sideways at Sherlock, considering everything that had happened in the last two days as well in the last hour, John took a deep breath and reached a decision. “It’s possible you might be getting a new room soon. I might give it to you earlier than I thought.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as his head snapped to his left to look at John. The doctor released a breath he didn’t know he was holding, looked at the detective and simply smiled.

_Did John mean what I think he meant?_ Sherlock wondered, he was hesitant to believe it.

“Of course, there are some things that need to be discussed first, some ground rules that must be laid, but it could happen quite soon.” John was looking back down at Cathy, sitting between the two of them, but his words were directed at Sherlock.

He was a little surprised at his sudden decision to accept Sherlock’s offer, especially in light of what had just happened. How could he be considering moving in with a man who was so oblivious to his feelings? Sherlock hadn’t even considered that John might call, that he would be worried at not finding his daughter where he thought her to be. He knew he should still be angry at Sherlock, but he also knew his own feelings had been all over the place. The last couple of days, heck the last year in general, had put him in a heightened state of anxiety, and anything was bound to set him on edge at any moment.

On the other hand, he couldn’t completely forgive Sherlock’s lack of forethought; if he could be so brilliant at detecting and understanding people’s motives for crimes, he could very well learn how to take another person’s emotional state into consideration. He didn’t have to be so self-centered.

Regardless, John couldn’t ignore the fact that he wanted to move back. He had been putting up excuses, stalling each time Sherlock brought up the question, knowing the many rational and logical reasons why he shouldn’t take him up on his offer. Still, deep down, he couldn’t dismiss the truth; he wanted to return to Baker Street, he wanted some semblance of normality returned to his life, he wanted to raise his child in a better place, and he wanted Sherlock Holmes by his side.

The cab stopped in front of his building, and the three of them quickly exited the vehicle. Cathy had been chatting endlessly about the case, telling about how Sherlock had swooped in, insulted half of Scotland Yard and impressed the other half, all with a couple of well-placed sentences. At least, this is what John inferred from her narrative. As she became more and more exited, her words tended to mesh together, relying on many onomatopoeic sounds to convey her meaning. Sherlock was staring at her with a look of fascination, as he could barely understand her words. On the cab ride, he had frequently looked up at John questioningly, and the doctor had quickly translated her more garbled words for him.

Now they stood in front of the drab, grey building that was their ‘living space’. John hadn’t been able to bring himself to call it ‘home’. ‘Home’ had been the flat he shared with Mary, and Baker Street before that. Now, maybe, Baker Street could be home once more. Suddenly John didn’t feel like going in, he didn’t want to see his tiny living room, and his cramped kitchen, and his one bedroom. He didn’t want to face his landlord, that horrid man who treated him like dirt; he didn’t want to see the boxes stacked in the corner full of Mary’s and his belongings.

“Let’s go somewhere else.” He said on impulse. Cathy looked up at him in confusion, and Sherlock refrained from making any comments. The detective could tell that John’s thoughts were conflicted. He had sensed it in the cab ride, and he could almost taste it now.

John bent down and picked Cathy up, bringing her up against his chest, her legs dangling at his sides.

“I need some air.” He offered as explanation, the same one he had given the day before. Half of the time he felt he couldn’t breathe properly in that tiny flat, and he needed to be able to think things through properly. He was on the brink of taking a decision that could be either great, or terrible.

Taking off, John began walking down the road they had just come from. He noted that Sherlock was at his side, but he barely paid him any attention, even though he occupied most of his thoughts. Could he really be considering this? Was this the right decision? He couldn’t tell for certain.

And how would they proceed? He couldn’t really afford his old room at Baker Street, otherwise he would have considered it before moving into his current place. Sherlock and Mycroft would help, that was a given; they had offered it enough times to the point of becoming a nuisance. But could he just accept their money like that? _You’re not accepting their money, you’re accepting their help. This is what friends do; they help each other out, in whatever way they can_. And if he did start accompanying Sherlock on cases again, they’d be able to make more than enough. But could he lead such a dangerous life again? He had a child to look after, he couldn’t put himself in danger like that. On the other hand, John mused, thinking back to three years prior, the danger they had faced had mostly come from Moriarty’s schemes. Most of their cases actually required tracking down crafty, but nonetheless run-of-the-mill criminals. _That’s still dangerous_ , his mind added.

John was a seasoned veteran, and he knew that the ‘unexpected bullet’ came during the most routine and ‘safe’ situations. Hunting down criminals and murderers, solving cases with Sherlock Holmes, running around the very unsafe back alleys of London – danger would always be there, with or without the Moriartys of the underworld.

And yet, could he not steer Sherlock toward safer cases? Could he not impart to the detective a sense of self-preservation? These were the things they needed to discuss.

Without meaning to, John realized they had walked all the way to the park; the same park in which Sherlock had gazed upon John and Catherine over a week before, the same park they had gone to yesterday after Sherlock’s return. Silently, John approached one of the benches closest to the playground, and set Cathy down on the ground.

Crouching down to her level, John said, “Sherlock and I need to talk for a while, is that alright?”

Cathy glanced toward the playground and nodded eagerly.

“’s’alright; you sure talk lots.”

John laughed a slightly at that. “Yeah, reminds me of a certain someone.” He tapped his finger on the tip of her nose before sending her on her way. “Don’t run around too much.” he warned her, although she set off running on her short legs toward the nearest slide.

John sat down on the bench, keeping his eyes on Catherine, and Sherlock silently sat beside him.

“She comes first.” He said eventually.

Sherlock nodded, “Naturally.” His heart did an unexpected leap in his chest.

“No body parts in the fridge, we’ll get you a separate one where you can keep them.”

Sherlock’s heart rate jumped a little more.

“No leaving experiments or dangerous chemicals, objects, tools, anything around.”

“Of course.” Sherlock swallowed reflexively. _John was saying.. he was actually agreeing…_

“No particularly dangerous cases.”

Sherlock frowned a little, “John-”

“No, Sherlock I’m firm about this. We stumble into something dangerous, we call Lestrade. I won’t lose you again, and I don’t plan on dying any time soon either. I won’t do that to her, and you won’t do it to me.”

Sherlock nodded reluctantly. He did understand, although he craved danger as much as John did. But John was coming back, that was all that mattered; he was sitting here, telling him that he was coming back. Sherlock couldn’t be happier, although John’s words almost snapped him out of his elation.

“You’re not to scare me like today ever again.” John whispered.

“I never meant to scare you.”

“I know Sherlock. I understand your need for action, for stimulation, but if I’m going to do this, I need you to be more conscious about people other than yourself, especially Cathy.”

Sherlock hung his head, that was the most difficult part. He wanted to be more aware because he cared for John, and now for Cathy as well, but it was so difficult to see outside of his own head sometimes.

“I’ll try to be accommodating, to let you do your experiments and join you in cases, understand that you won’t do the groceries, or keep the flat clean. I’ll understand that you’ll teach my daughter questionable things, and probably be a lousy role model. I’ll accept the barbs, and the unintentional insults you throw my way. I’ll put up with your invasion of my privacy. But I need you to also be more sympathetic. I know you’ll keep my daughter safe, but I don’t want to find myself doubting it again. I know it’s hard, but I need you to try to see things my way, to put yourself in my place sometimes.”

“I will try, I will do my best John. I.. I can’t promise it’ll be perfect, but I do care.. a lot, surprisingly.”

John chuckled lightly at that.

“It’s not surprising Sherlock. I never believed you were a sociopath anyways.”

“Don’t say it out loud, you’ll ruin my reputation.”

John laughed louder then.

“Well… that’s it then.” The doctor took a deep breath. “I.. I’m moving back to Baker Street. I can hardly believe it. Uhm, I imagine it will take a week or more to get the paperwork done, move our things, fix up 221B..”

“Actually-” Sherlock started, only to be interrupted by a voice from behind them.

“Actually, it’s all taken care of, or rather it will be in about an hour more.”

Turning around, they discovered the British Government personified standing right behind them.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “How long have you been standing there?”

“The question you should be asking, dear brother, is ‘Why didn’t you notice me?’”

“I’m occupied.”

“That’s not an excuse. In any case, what I said is true, everything is taken care of.”

“Uhm, yes, Mycroft, what exactly did you mean by that?” it was John’s turn to ask, but instead of the elder Holmes, it was Sherlock who answered.

“Mycroft’s actually been at it since yesterday, although I have my suspicions that he had the plans to rearrange our old flat for some time now.”

“What?” John looked between the two brothers, half in bafflement and half in annoyance. “ _I_ didn’t even know I would be accepting Sherlock’s offer, how could you possibly know my decision. Besides, what do you mean by ‘at it since yesterday’?” John was glancing between the two Holmes brothers apprehensively.

Mycroft sighed and pursed his lips. “He means that I have made the arrangements to make your old flat suitable for you and Cathy. She will have the extra room that Mrs. Hudson used to keep closed and which is across from your own. It is fully furnished and ready for the both of you. And I knew because I’ve always known you wanted to go back there, it was only a matter of time before you agreed.”

John gaped at Mycroft, before he sputtered a reply. “You’ve been planning this since Mary passed away, haven’t you? You told me to go back to Baker Street then, offered to pay for it yourself.”

“Yes, well, I always knew Sherlock would come back. It seemed only natural that you would also.”

“Mycroft, we’ve known each other for a long time now, but sometimes I just want to wring your neck for all your meddling.” The doctor shook his head, rubbing a hand across his tired face.

Mycroft’s gaze softened, “John,” his voice lowered, “it is not meant as an imposition or control. Surely you can see that.”

“I know! I know.” John took another deep breath; these two could drive a man up the wall.

“Look, if I’m going to do this, you two have to stop trying to control my life. I know I’m a stubborn ass, but the two of you are worse. Can we try to be a bit more honest here? Don’t do things that will affect me without my knowledge, alright? Even when it is for my benefit, please. Just tell me what you’re going to do before you do it, alright?” John hated being left in the dark, feeling like he was being manipulated. If he had to swallow his damned pride and accept that he needed help, then the Holmes brothers could swallow their need of theatrics and superiority and fill him in instead of treating him like a child.

Mycroft nodded silently, as did Sherlock, before quipping, “Although for how long will Mycroft be able to contain himself, we cannot be certain.”

John allowed himself small grin at that, while in his mind he sighed. _What am I going to do with these two?_

“Yes well, I’m going to go say ‘hi’ to my niece, do let me know when you wish to go to Baker Street.” Mycroft pointed with his umbrella towards the black car parked on an adjacent street to the park, before making his way toward the playground without a second glance to the two on the bench.

As soon as Catherine saw him she squealed in delight and ran toward him.

“Uncle Myc!”

Cathy latched herself to his leg, hugging him tightly, and Mycroft patted her affectionately on the head. Anyone else would have thought that it was a cold gesture, but John and Sherlock both could see how much affection was in it. Catherine proceeded to take his hand and drag him over to the playground, showing off her games for him.

“There’s something a bit unsettling about seeing Mycroft dressed in his fancy suit, twirling his umbrella about, and playing with a two-year old.” John said offhandedly.

“ _You_ find it unsettling. You’ve had two years to get used to it, I’ve only just seen it.” Sherlock had a look of mild nausea on his face, making John laugh out loud.

“Sherlock, you should see your face.” John laughed, keeping his eyes on the scene in the playground. Catherine had somehow convinced the elder Holmes to help her across the monkey bars, which she would otherwise never be able to reach. He had acquiesced, leaning his umbrella against the large wooden structure that occupied most of the playground, picking her up and holding her slightly above his own head as she placed her hands on each bar.

John shook his head at the sight. He truly never would have expected something like that three years prior. His thoughts, however, wandered to the present once more.

“So.. he fix up 221B then?” John wondered out loud.

“Yes, his people had the rooms ready by last night, all that was left was moving your belongings, which I imagine he must have done while we were out today.”

“Which wouldn’t have been that difficult, considering how little I own, and how almost everything was packed up in boxes anyways?” John said tightly.

“Perhaps, but mostly due to the efficiency of Mycroft’s people.”

John nodded in defeat, “I guess that means I’m probably not going back to my flat.”

Sherlock looked at him questioningly, “Would you want to? Unless you want to say a few choice words to your landlord, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that my brother did that already, why would you want to go back?”

Sighing, John tried to explain, “I.. don’t know Sherlock. If I’m honest, I’m still confused. I’m confused about everything that’s happened, these last two days, you, me, everything. It is.. I’m still sort of expecting to wake up, you know?”

Sherlock thought about it and agreed, “It has been very sudden, I imagine.”

John laughed mirthlessly. “That’s an understatement. Two days ago I was working thirty-six hour days at the hospital, barely sustaining myself and my daughter. Hell, even this morning I was wondering how I was going to pay this month’s rent. Two days ago my best friend was dead, and two hours ago I was very hurt and angry with said formerly-dead friend, and now I’m moving back in with you. It’s like I’ve been pushed off a cliff… and I don’t know how it happened.”

“Hmm, it has been a change for me as well, but it doesn’t have to be.. bad.”

“No, you’re right. It’s good.. it’s quite good…” John turned to Sherlock and smiled a proper smile. “I mean, I can’t promise it won’t hit me later on, ‘cause.. I’ve been pretty bad lately, but right now it’s very good.” John was silent for a few seconds before he added,

“Thank you, Sherlock.” He whispered.

Sherlock smiled back at him before looking back toward Mycroft and Catherine; the latter was currently trying to convince the older man to slide down with her and they could see him trying to explain to her the various reasons why he wouldn’t.

With a pained look on his face, Sherlock commented, “I cannot believe I’m going to say this, but I think we should rescue my brother.”

John giggled at the sight, “Yes, it would be a bit evil to just sit and watch.”

Standing up, the two of them made their way to the playground. As they approached they heard the conversation Catherine and Mycroft were having.

“But it’s fun.”

“Undoubtedly it is fun for you, my dear, but I would not derive any amusement from it, I assure you.”

“Don’t put it down until you try it.” John interjected.

Mycroft simply raised an eyebrow in reply.

“Daddy, wanna play?” Cathy smiled brightly at him, making him smile back instantly.

“Another time love, right now we’re going back to Baker Street.” Mycroft gave John a smug look, but John merely rolled his eyes. When Lestrade told him he would need patience, he didn’t know the half of it.

“Are we gonna visit Mrs. Hudson again?” Catherine’s smile became impossibly wider, as she jumped into his arms.

Moving her to his hip he took a deep breath, “We’ll certainly see her.” He didn’t elaborate more than that, finding it difficult to say the words ‘we’re moving to a new place’ out loud.

Holding his daughter tightly, John glanced at the Holmes brothers, trying to dismiss all the thoughts that filled him with apprehension and anxiety. Smiling wryly he said “Shall we then?” before walking in the direction of Mycroft’s black car. Feeling Sherlock at one side and Mycroft at the other, John suddenly realized that they made a very strange family picture. 


	12. Chapter 12

 

As the four of them entered 221 they were greeted by Mrs. Hudson’s warm “Oh, my boys” and “my sweet Cathy” accompanied by hugs and kisses, even for Mycroft. They spent about half an hour in her flat having tea and cakes, with John trying to limit, as much as he could anyways, Catherine’s consumption of sweets, while she once again chatted endlessly about her day with Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson sent a couple of glares the detective’s way as Cathy told about how they went to a crime scene, and Sherlock had the decency to look sufficiently cowed under her gaze. John Watson and Martha Hudson were about the only two people on the planet who could make him aware and regretful of his mistakes.

As they finished their drinks, it was John, surprisingly, who stood up and said “Well, I think we have some business upstairs we need to see to.”

Sherlock stood up quickly, he could hear the nervousness in John’s voice, but was secretly ecstatic that the doctor seemed eager to go back to their rooms, despite that nervousness.

“I get to see where you ‘n uncle had your ‘ventures?” Cathy jumped up just as quickly, and was headed for the door before the other three even had time to react.

“I’m going to be sorry I let her eat all those cakes later, aren’t I?” John sighed and shook his head in defeat, although he had a small smile on his face.

“Oh, don’t worry dear, they didn’t have that much sugar in them. I’d say it’s really just excitement.” Mrs. Hudson waved them off as they left her flat and headed upstairs.

“You are aware that sugar doesn’t really make children hyperactive, right?” John, who was climbing determinately up the stairs ahead of them, stopped and glanced back at Sherlock.

“I’m a doctor, I know that perfectly well. However, I’m also a parent, and the things I have seen my friend, completely disprove it.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s overdramatics.

“Really, Sherlock. You remember that film _Gremlins_ I got you to watch one time?”

Sherlock frowned as he sought to remember the exact film. “Was that the one with the non-frightening rubber puppets?”

John nodded, “Don’t feed them after midnight.” He added meaningfully, before continuing up the seventeen steps.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, but was pleased that John’s mood was more easygoing than nervous and anxious. With all of the man’s mood swings, Sherlock had to admit that the last two days had felt like he was sitting on one of those seesaws in the playground.

Cathy was already in the upstairs landing when John joined her, looking down at the three men still on the stairs like they were much too slow for her liking. Placing a gentle hand on her head to calm her down, John faced the door to his old life, and his new life. Not often is a person able to physically stand at the threshold of a change, of a new stage of their life. John watched the door and breathed in deeply.

Sherlock came up behind him, took his hand in his, turning it palm upward, and placing the key to 221B in it. John swallowed thickly, closing his fingers around the small key that hadn’t been in his hand for three years. Cathy, beside him, sensed the change in the atmosphere around them, and pressed herself against his leg.

John glanced down at her; her action encouraged him, even if she didn’t know it, and without any more delays he inserted the key into the lock, twisted it, and entered the flat.

\--

It looked almost the same as it had been before, not much had been changed. He quickly took stock of the changes, a new set of curtains, an extra chair in the living room, no experiments and papers strewn about. John walked to the center of the main room, turning around slowly, taking it all in. Here he was, standing in his old home once again, as though he had never left at all, as though nothing had changed at all.

“Daddy, daddy, is that the same one?” Cathy’s call interrupted his thoughts, reminding him that things had certainly changed monumentally for him.

Turning around, he saw her standing on her tiptoes besides the fireplace, pointing up at something on the mantelpiece. He walked toward her, as did Sherlock and Mycroft, who had up till then remained by the door, silently watching John become reacquainted with his old home.

“Ah, yes, that’s uncle Sherlock’s skull.” he smiled at the memory of it; still the same old skull.

“You told her about the skull?” said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course. She had to know how mad you were.”

Sherlock was about to offer a sarcastic reply when his brother interrupted him, although he couldn’t be annoyed at Mycroft’s words.

“Would you like to see the rest of it, John?” he clearly wanted to show off his work, or his people’s work, at least.

John took Cathy’s hand and nodded silently, following Mycroft out to the hall way and to the left. His old room was up the second flight of stairs and to the right, but they headed for the smaller room that had remained unoccupied before.

The elder Holmes opened the door, beckoning them inside and John couldn’t help but gasp as he entered the room.

“Wow.” whispered Cathy; she wasn’t quite sure where to look.

John turned back to the door, seeing both Holmes standing there smiling, particularly Mycroft. The doctor stared at them in astonishment.

“Mycroft… I can’t.. I mean… this is.. this is amazing.” John’s mouth open and closed several times before he gave up and looked back at the room. He saw Cathy tentatively going around and he almost called her back to warn her not to touch anything before he realized with shock that it was all hers now.

The bedroom was simply beautiful, painted in soft purples and greens, perfect for any girl. A large bed occupied most of the room, made up with very plush and obviously expensive covers and pillows, as well as a couple of stuffed animals. He momentarily recognized one of them, the teddy bear him and Mary had bought her when she turned one, sitting proudly among the pillows.

Turning around his eyes caught the white-painted oak dresser, bedside chest drawers, and large wardrobe, as well as bookcase and a child’s writing desk complete with lamp, shelves and writing and drawing tools. As he approached this, John noticed that the shelves and the bookcase were stocked with children’s books, many of which had been books he had kept in some of the boxes in his living room, not having had any space for them.

He was just thinking about what other boxes Mycroft’s people had gone through, when Cathy’s gasp of delight caught his attention. She was kneeling on the other side of the bed next to the large bright windows. Her attention was held by an elaborate dolls’ house that had been set up in the corner of the room.

John’s head snapped back toward Mycroft, his mouth hanging half open, and his eyes threatened to fill up with unshed tears. Sherlock quickly crossed the room to John’s side, his gaze moving between John and Cathy.

“What is it?” he whispered. John was about to reply when Cathy called his attention again.

“Daddy, come look! Isn’t it pretty?!” She was completely enrapt with the detail on the miniature furniture and the tiny doll people.

“It sure is, honey.” John momentarily hesitated between Cathy and Sherlock, before slowly approaching Cathy and crouching beside her. Looking back at Sherlock, he motioned for the detective to join them.

“It was you mum’s. She had it since she was a little girl, like you. She.. she always wanted you to have it.” he said slowly, _And she always said how much she looked forward to playing with you_. John didn’t add that, but Sherlock could see it in his sad smile and in his eyes.

Standing back up, John turned back to Sherlock and Mycroft. On impulse, he placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm and gently squeezed in gratefulness, before addressing the elder Holmes.

“Thank you,” he whispered, “I can’t say much more than that.” His voice almost caught in his throat, but he controlled it. “It’s all just like it was… better even.” he finished.

Mycroft strode across the room and smiled back, “You forget, John, that I was a guest in your home several times. I remember how it looked, and I remember Mary expressing her ideas on how to improve it, the changes she thought of making. I tried to incorporate them here, for you, for my niece, and for her.

“Thank you.” John repeated, taking a shaky breath.

Looking around he noticed that there were still a couple of boxes left packed in another corner of the room.

Noticing his gaze, Mycroft explained, “Ah, I thought you might want to unpack those yourself. There are a few others in your room as well.”

Assenting, John looked back at Cathy who was busy examining every inch of the dolls’ house.

“I.. I think I’d like to speak with Cathy for a moment. Just to explain things, if that’s alright.”

Sherlock looked like he was reluctant to leave, but Mycroft quickly agreed and pulled his brother out of the room.

“Naturally, we’ll be in the living room.”

Just as they were leaving, Sherlock hung back for a moment. John had signaled Cathy to join him, sitting her up on the huge bed.

“John,” the doctor glanced back at him, “welcome back.” Sherlock’s voice betrayed his feelings.

“It’s good to be home.” He replied, just as meaningfully, watching Sherlock duck out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Turning his attention back on Cathy, John regarded her for a couple of seconds, loving the way her eyes wandered in amazement across the room. She was happy, he could tell.

“Catherine,” she focused all her attention on him now, he seldom called her ‘Catherine’, so she knew whatever he had to say had to be important. She could tell something big was going on from the way her daddy and uncles were behaving, but she wasn’t entirely sure she knew what it was. She had an inkling of it, though.

“Do you like this room?” her daddy asked softly.

“Oh yes! It’s pretty and cool.”

“How would you like it if this was your room?”

Cathy’s eyes lit up at that idea, though she frowned as she considered his words.

“What ‘bout the one at home?”

John’s chest felt heavy for a moment, before he answered, “This could be our new home. Here, with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. Would you like that?”

“We won’t go back?”

“Do you want to?” John held his breath.

Cathy considered this for a moment, looked around the room and with a big smile she replied, “Not really.”

John broke into a smile as well. “Well, I’m happy. Really happy that you’re happy. Shall we go tell Sherlock and Mycroft?”

“Yes!” Cathy jumped down from the bed and ran to the door.

As the two of them returned to the living room John noticed Sherlock and Mycroft sitting closer to each other than he’d ever seen them, and what was more surprising, they weren’t at each other’s throats. Three years before they would have been standing at opposite ends of the room, shouting insults at one another; how much had changed between them all, John realized.

“Uncle Sh’rlock! Daddy says we’re living here!”

Sherlock looked at John for an instant, noticing the smile on the doctor’s face, before bending down to receive the excited bundle that jumped toward him. Remembering how John had picked her up before, Sherlock easily brought Cathy up to his chest, holding her up so they could almost look each other in the eye.

“Most definitely. Your father is entirely correct on that.”

Looking at one another, John Sherlock and Mycroft felt like they were the oddest sort of family, but a family nonetheless.

\--

That night John tucked Cathy into her new bed at 221B Baker Street, the soft duvet warmly wrapped around her small body. He regarded his child for a moment, seeing his own blue eyes reflected back at him. He gently stroked her hair, his fingers weaving through her soft reddish-blond hair, so very much like Mary’s. He loved the fact that Cathy had inherited it because she would always carry a little of her mother with her, even if she couldn’t remember her properly

“So, how do you like it here?” he whispered.

The little two-year old shrugged, before losing her resolve and breaking into a wide smile.

“I really like it a lot, daddy. Are we really going to stay here forever?” Her bright blue eyes sparkled, even though John could see the sleepiness in them.

“It seems that way, love.” John was glad she liked it here, returning to Baker Street felt like coming home. Well, to one home. He wished he could have kept the place he and Mary had rented when they got married instead of having to move his child to that little rundown flat. He had tried his best to give her all of the comforts she could wish for, but it hadn’t felt like home to him. Now he looked around the amazing room Mycroft Holmes had provided for Catherine, and he felt a pang of despair that _he_ hadn’t been able to give her that. But he would swallow his pride; no longer would he refuse help. Besides, he couldn’t deny how very happy he was to be back in Baker Street, and even happier about the prospect of raising his daughter in a place that had brought him so much joy.

John looked back down at his daughter. Cradled in her hands was the little crystal cube with the laser-engraved fairy. As he sat with her that afternoon, going through the boxes in her room, John had found the small decoration, and shown it to her. She hadn’t left it out of her sight since, reveling on how the light caught the contours of the hologram.

“Let’s put it away for now, ok?” he whispered, and she reluctantly let him take it from her hands and place it on her bedside table, where the light from her lamp prismed as it went through, creating a rainbow pattern on the white surface.

“So now, with uncle Sh’rlock, we’re a family again?” she asked softly, suppressing a yawn.

A lump rose to John’s throat; Cathy had a way of doing that to him way too often.

“Baby, we were a family before too, just the two of us.” He kept his voice soft.

“I know.” The child rolled her eyes as though the things her daddy said were always silly. “I mean a big family again.”

The lump in John’s throat became more difficult to swallow.

“We’re a family of three again, yeah.” Then, to dispel his own saddening mood, “But babe, three’s not very big at all.”

“Yes it is”, she asserted, “I’m going to be three, and you said I’ll be a big girl then. ‘Sides, it’s bigger with Mrs. Hudson and uncle Myc too.”

John laughed softly at his child’s ‘impeccable’ logic.

“That it is; now go to sleep you.” John tapped her nose lightly with his index finger, eliciting a soft giggle from the wrapped up bundle.

Cathy cuddled deeper into her blankets before regarding her father closely once again.

“Are you happy, daddy?”

He wondered briefly whether someday Cathy would lose her heightened sense of perception. Then John considered her question for a few moments. The last two days had felt like a train derailing. Or perhaps his train had been derailing for a long time, and what he had felt during the last forty-eight hours was the train being wrenched back into its proper track. Was he happy?

“Yes, I think so. I am very happy. Very happy.”

Cathy, satisfied with his answer, brought the duvet up to her chin, nodded and yawned widely.

“Good. G’night daddy. I love you.” She said, her eyes closing tiredly.

“Night, baby. I love you too, so much.” John bent down and placed a kiss on Cathy’s forehead, checked she was properly tucked in, and exited the room. At the doorway, he glanced back towards the bed, seeing his little girl already in the process of falling asleep, before turning off the lights and closing the door.

As he turned in the hallway toward the living room he saw his best friend standing by the stairs staring at him.

“Where you… where you listening in?”

Sherlock fidgeted for a moment before settling on “Yes.”

John laughed tiredly, “It’s ok. Hear anything interesting?” John moved in the direction of their sitting room, with the lanky detective following in tow.

“I find your relationship with little Catherine… fascinating.”

John plopped down on his chair, _his_ chair; it felt really good to be back.

“How so?”

“The way you interact with her and talk with her, it’s so natural and… loving.”

Another laugh escaped the doctor. “Sherlock, she’s my kid, of course I love her. And about the way we interact… well, I suppose I’ve had a little over two years to get used to being a parent. Besides, you haven’t been too bad yourself, all things considered.”

Sherlock took a seat opposite John, steepling his fingers in that familiar ‘Holmesian’ pose of his he took whenever he was going to acquire information from a client. It both struck John as comforting, to see his friend in so familiar an environment, and as slightly uncomfortable, for he didn’t know how much he wanted to be under Sherlock Holmes’ inquisitive eyes.

“Will you tell me about her?”

John knew this was coming. He had felt Sherlock’s interest since the beginning, especially after Sherlock had told his story of what he had been up to for the last three years. Sherlock’s life might have been busy, but it hadn’t been changed as drastically as John’s, which naturally made the younger man feel left out, and John knew how much Sherlock detested being left out of the loop. The fact that he had lasted this long without asking was a testament to his friendship; he had felt Sherlock’s ‘tenseness’ every time he or Mycroft mentioned Mary.

“I’d love to tell you about her,” John said with a crooked bittersweet smile, “What do you want to know?”

“How did you meet?”

“Ah,” John laughed lightly as the memories took over, “You could say we met because of you.”

At Sherlock’s frown, he continued, his smile widening fractionally.

“After you ‘died’, I was in a bad shape, I don’t mind telling you. I saw my best friend walk off a building, it’s not something you get over easily.” Even though John’s words were laden with past emotion, they both knew they carried no recrimination toward the detective anymore.

“So, my therapist suggested very firmly that I join this grief counseling group; get to talk to other people who had recently lost close family and friends.”

“And that’s where you met Mary?”

“Yeah, she had recently lost her father, to whom she was very close. Her mother had died when she was a.. a kid, and her father was all she had left.” John’s eyes had strayed over to the door in the direction of his daughter’s room as he realized the parallels between her and her mother. He swallowed thickly briefly, before resuming his narrative.

“Well, to make a long story short, we got on fabulously well. It was like, by talking about each other’s grief, we gave it to each other. I got to know her father and she got to know you. Does that make sense?”

“You took on the other’s burden.”

“Yeah. And in the process we discovered that we had other things in common other than grief and misery.”

“You fell in love.”

“Fell is not the correct verb, more like crashed against each other.”

“I don’t need to hear about your _exploits_ together.” Sherlock said with a grin.

John did laugh out loud at that, and Sherlock noticed how his eyes seemed to light up in merriment and in remembrance.

“That is NOT what I meant. It was so strange, Sherlock. Like, we knew each other; as though we had just been waiting to meet, as though we were always supposed to meet. I know how corny that sounds, but that’s how it felt. Like falling in love was inevitable.”

And Sherlock supposed that he did understand, in a way. After all, their own friendship had felt like something inescapable. They had met one day, and the next evening they were saving each other’s lives. Perhaps saving one another created bonds that were stronger than the negative things that should have kept them apart. And maybe it was the same with John and Mary, they saved each other, and in the process found a lifelong companion.

“Marriage didn’t come long after that, and I think my proposal surprised us both. Maybe something _was_ pushing us onward… maybe the universe, or fate, or whatever, knew how little time we had.”

Sherlock could tell that John was sinking into a darker mood, so he needed to steer him from thoughts about Mary’s death to memories of her life.

“Describe her to me.”

John snapped out of his thoughts about fate and the universe and death with a start.

“Oh, of course. I have pictures of her here.” John rose to retrieve his laptop, before plunking back down into his chair. With a few clicks, which Sherlock deduced was an often repeated action, John opened his file of pictures of his wife. Sherlock took the laptop when John offered it, and began browsing through the pictures, although he said,

“These are wonderful John, but I want _you_ to describe her for me.”

John remained pensive for a moment, during which Sherlock reviewed the dozens upon dozens of pictures John had. The doctor had ordered them by date, so Sherlock could tell when and where each was taken from John’s previous narrative. Here were pictures taken in a room full of other people, whom Sherlock deduced to be the therapy group John mentioned. Here were pictures of Mary in a park, and here at a restaurant or at the cinema.

Sherlock’s eyes lifted from the computer screen as John sighed deeply.

“She was beautiful; beautiful in every sense. Flaming red hair, bright blue eyes, Cathy’s remind me of hers, even though they are more like my own. She had a wicked sense of humor, and a lovely laugh. She could tell in two seconds whether someone was sad or angry. Did I tell you she was a teacher?” Sherlock shook his head lightly, “She would always come home with stories about her students; how she worried about them and that sort of thing. She smelled of lavender with a hint of chalk.” Sherlock saw his friend smile at the memories, a sad-like smile that made him, not for the first or last time, both grateful and angry at Mary Watson.

As John continued with his description, Sherlock went on perusing the photographs. They went on and on, happy pictures; most were only of Mary, but sometimes John was in them too. At first he would be simply standing by her side, smiling, but as they progressed, the pictures became more affectionate. Here they were in a park laughing with their heads closed together; here, they had obviously gotten someone to take their picture in front of a fountain, they were hugging much closer than just friends; here the embrace was anything but platonic; and here, _oh!_ , Sherlock’s mind stalled for a moment.

The picture had been taken from above, not from a normal point of view, _Mycroft’s CTTV_ _cameras_ , Sherlock realized. It showed two people standing in front of the door to a flat, their arms wrapped around each other and their lips pressed together in a tender kiss. It was one of the few pictures on the file that had additional information besides the date. It was simply labeled ‘First Kiss’.

Sherlock turned the laptop around to show John, who blushed and tried to hide the grin that threatened to spread across his face. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, silently asking the doctor to tell him the story behind the picture.

“That picture was given to me by your dear brother after I tried to convince him that there was nothing going on between Mary and me.”

At Sherlock’s baffled look, John laughed even more.

“Mary and I had been trying to keep our relationship under wraps. It really moved on pretty quickly from easy-going to quite serious, and we were worried people would try to dissuade us from it. About a week after that picture was taken, your brother suddenly invited me to lunch, which I accepted for two reasons, the first being that we had declared a form of truce between us after your ‘demise’, and the second being that if I didn’t, he’d simply kidnap me, as he is wont to do.

“Well, there we were, in a very posh restaurant, having a pleasant lunch, when he suddenly asked ‘What are your intentions with Mary Morstan?’ and I had to use all of my skills as a doctor and a soldier not to spit water all over him. Instead I simply and innocently replied ‘What do you mean? We’re friends.’”

“Upon which he proceeded to produce this picture?”

“Yes, well, needless to say I was speechless, but of course I tried, and eventually failed miserably, to feign outrage.”

Both men laughed softly at that.

“So, you know how it goes, lots of ‘you have no right to invade my privacy’, ‘I’m simply looking out for you John’, ‘It’s nothing’, ‘It doesn’t look like nothing; how long has this been going on’.” Sherlock chuckled again at John’s interpretation of Mycroft.

“It wasn’t until I assured him that that had actually been our first kiss that he calmed down. Seriously, at the time I had been worried he had replaced you with me, and was trying to ‘brother’ me.”

“He probably had. Mycroft always needs to center his attention on someone, it stops him from looking too deeply at himself. With myself so far away, maybe he did bestow some of his twisted brotherly affections on you.”

“More than you know, Sherlock. I make fun of him, but he was… good.. afterwards.” John was pensive for a few seconds before resuming, “So yeah, that’s what that picture is. But it did help, in a way. It made me realize what I was feeling. So thank you, Mycroft. In fact, I asked him for it later; Mary and I used to laugh about it saying how it made us look like a couple of teenagers hiding from our parents… or big brother.” John laughed again.

“Mycroft mentioned you… became friends.” Sherlock noted the unintentional jealous tone that colored his voice, and so did the doctor.

“It wasn’t a replacement, Sherlock. I could never wish to replace you, neither with Mary nor your brother.”

“Not even Mary?”

“It’s different. While she appeared at the precise moment to get me over your loss, she was entirely different. I can’t imagine I would have loved her any less had you still been alive. She… she was amazing.. I don’t know how to explain it. You’re like… like a brother to me, and my best and closest friend, and Mary.. she was my heart.”

Sherlock tried to understand, and on some levels he did, even though family and affection were still so foreign to him. And he did feel affection for John, a feeling he realized he had not felt for a long time, not since his childhood. Back then his brother and he used to be very close, even despite the age difference, but sometime along the way it had gone terribly awry. He supposed he still must care for Mycroft, he would certainly be upset if the man died, but they didn’t share the same closeness that he did with John.

“You would have liked her.” John’s words broke through his musings.

“She was very clever, and she loved to hear about our cases. She would often ask things like ‘Why did no one notice such and such detail? or ‘Did they check behind this or that?’, only to discover you had made the same questions or deductions.”

The young detective wondered how it would have been had he still been around. For starters, they would likely not met, since John wouldn’t have been going to the group therapies. For another thing, Sherlock wondered whether he would have tried to sabotage their relationship like he tried to sabotage so many others. Or would Mary Morstan have won him over? Would they really have gotten along? Mycroft had thought her more than suitable for John, and had enjoyed her company enough to invite them for dinner on several occasions. On the other hand, the Holmes brothers so often disagreed on things, he might have disagreed on this as well.

“Here,” John’s voice once again shook Sherlock out of his thoughts, “let me show you some more pictures.”

John got up from his chair and perched on the armrest of Sherlock’s, motioning the other man to turn the laptop around again. Half bending over him, John flipped through the pictures at a random pace, dismissing some (‘That’s just some photos at the cinema’), and lingering on others (‘That’s a trip we took to the seaside one weekend’). A couple of months after date of the first pictures, came the wedding pictures.

“Two months!?”

“Yeah, I told you it was a surprise. I tell you, I’d never been so sure of anything, and so afraid at the same time. It was a small wedding, despite the fact that your brother wanted to make it a gigantic affair. Honestly Sherlock, your brother is way more sentimental than I used to think.” Sherlock snorted at that, but kept his focus on the photographs. The wedding had indeed been simple, but elegant, and the bride and groom both looked radiant with happiness.

“I pick them pretty, don’t I?” John whispered, looking longingly at a photo of his wife, joyful and carefree in her white wedding dress.

“She was beautiful John.” Sherlock couldn’t deny that; Mary Watson had not been a beauty queen, but she had been lovely and attractive in all the best ways, possessing an inner light that shone even through her pictures.

They kept flipping through the wedding pictures, there certainly were plenty of those. John continued lingering a second longer on pictures of Mary, or of the two of them together.  Suddenly it was Sherlock who stopped John as they passed a group photo.

“Who was your best man?”

John smirked and pointed, “Greg”

“Lestrade?!”

“Yeah. He’s also become a good, close friend during the last few years.”

_So much happens in three years_ , Sherlock’s mind repeated.

“I think Mycroft was disappointed when I didn’t ask him, but the truth is that _that_ would have felt like I was using him as a replacement for you. I couldn’t do that to your memory, to him, or to myself. I do wish it had been you there by my side.”

Sherlock’s black curls bounced as he nodded silently in agreement; another regret, another thing he’d missed. He continued browsing through the pictures until he came to one of a sonogram.

“I take it that’s…”

“Cathy, yes. We got pregnant pretty fast… everything was fast, too fast I know. But we wanted it, we felt this is what we had both been waiting for: us, and a family.”

The next bunch of pictures were of the Watsons fixing up a baby room in their new flat, (John painting walls or putting up wallpaper, Mary decorating the room), or simply pictures John had obviously taken on the spur of the moment with his cellphone of Mary. Sherlock could easily mark the passage of time without the need of the dates from Mary’s appearance, as her belly grew from month to month. Eventually the pictures turned from happy home photos, to slightly blurry pictures of the hospital.

They clearly had been taken hastily and while in motion. In one of the pictures, Mary’s annoyed, sweat drenched face, filled the screen, which made John chuckle once again.

“She wasn’t very happy that I was taking pictures; I think she would have rammed the camera down my throat if I had gotten too close.”

“I’ve heard it’s not wise to enrage a pregnant woman.” added the detective.

John laughed further at that. “You have no idea. She threatened that if I didn’t stop, she’s cut off certain body parts next time I fell asleep with my own scalpel.”

And indeed, there were no more pictures of Mary in labor. Instead, the next picture was that of a little pink scrunched up face wrapped in soft fleece.

“That’s my baby girl.” he said proudly.

Sherlock clicked the next picture, this one of John cradling his newborn daughter in his arms, a look of ecstatic joy on his face.

“I always thought fatherhood would suit you.” whispered Sherlock.

“It still took me by surprise… the amount of love you can have for someone you’ve just met, someone so tiny and powerless. But I suppose if we didn’t have that built in, maybe we’d abandon our young.”

“Not all parents have that instinct, John.” The doctor wondered whether he was talking from experience with his own parents, and not for the first time, he wondered about the upbringing both Sherlock and Mycroft had had. Both men seemed starved for affection, at any length.

“Yes, well, I think you might have it.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“I saw you playing with Cathy yesterday, and today in the afternoon, and I’ve seen how taken you’ve become with her. Despite your glorious mess this morning… _my God was that only this morning?_... you’ve gotten along splendidly with her. I know that look when I see it, and you’ve got it bad, my friend.”

“I.. well, she’s different from other children I’ve met. She’s intelligent. I must really congratulate you on that.”

“Thank you very much, I do try,” said John, with a grin, “but it’s not just that. She’s cute, and adorable, and she’s got you wrapped around her little finger as much as she’s got me. She’ll reduce you to ‘dotting uncle’ in no time.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment, but in the end he had to agree; Miss Catherine Helena Watson had managed to burrow her way into his heart like only one person before her had. Sherlock wondered whether he should make it a priority to keep his distance from other Watsons; they certainly had a talent for sneaking in unnoticed.

“Still, it was difficult this morning. I think having a prearranged set of possibilities was a deterrent at first. It wasn’t until we made up our own rules and games that it got less boring.”

“It’s not easy entertaining a child and not getting bored in the process, you just keep looking for the right angle until you find something you can both work with. Something that does not involve crime scenes, preferably.” John added softly.

Sherlock was about to open his mouth to apologize yet again, but John silenced him.

“No, you’ve said enough about it. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m not angry anymore.”

Sherlock nodded, and turned his attention back to the laptop on resting on his lap.

The two friends finished browsing through the photographs, most of them containing little Cathy either on her own, or with one or both of her parents. They looked like such a happy family, that Sherlock couldn’t help but feel regret and empathy that they would never be any more pictures like that.

“And there you go, Sherlock. The last three years of my life.” That bittersweet smile was back on John’s face.

“Thank you for sharing it with me. I wish I had been here… I should have been here. I’m sorry, John.” _For leaving, for not telling you, for not coming back earlier, for missing all of these happy moments, for Mary’s death, and for not being there in time to comfort you_. All of these things were contained in that three-word apology, all of these things were conveyed.

“Don’t mention it. What’s past it past, and the best we can do is remember the good things, and keep moving, right?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow; John wasn’t the type to spout clichés. The doctor shrugged one shoulder as he stood up and deposited his laptop back on the desk.

“Chinese fortune cookie last week.”

Sherlock shook his head as he also stood up and stretched.

“Tea?”

“That’d be great.” John responded.

“Good.” Sherlock walked over to his music stand, and picked up his violin.

John rolled his eyes, some things never changed. He walked over to the lanky detective and plucked the violin from his outraged hands. Looking meaningfully toward the hallway, John placed the violin back into his friend’s waiting hands.

Shaking his head he headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on. _Some things never changed_ , he reflected as he gazed back at the man in the sitting room who now stretched himself on the couch, his violin still in his hands, but thankfully silent, however sometimes, _some did_.


	13. Chapter 13

 

Sherlock was awake, something had woken him up but he wasn’t certain what it was. Just as he was beginning to drift off to sleep once more he heard it again – sounds coming from John’s room, and they were becoming louder by the second. Pretty soon, Sherlock was certain, everyone on the building would be hearing John, including Cathy on the room across.

Sighing, the detective swung his long legs off the bed and made his way up to the doctor’s room. The flat was dark and quiet, and as Sherlock climbed the steps to his friend’s room, he could hear his mumblings and intermittent cries increasing in volume. Sherlock paused on the doorway and gently pushed the door open merely a crack so that he could peer into John’s room.

There he saw the doctor in the throes of a dream. Small jerks ran through his body at random intervals, and his head swayed from side to side, but the most distressing factor was the almost pained moaning sounds coming from John.

‘Mary…’

Sherlock froze like a dear before headlights and he felt his cheeks reddening with embarrassment. The last thing he wanted to see was John having an intimate dream about his deceased wife. Not that there was anything wrong with it, for Sherlock knew how much John missed her. If he was able to see her and be with her in his dreams, then Sherlock wouldn’t deny the man that comfort. He was, however, worried that John’s noisy dream might wake up the smaller members of their household. Loath as he was to disturb John from pleasant dreams, he knew he had to wake the man up.

However, the more he watched John the more he noticed that John’s movements and reactions didn’t seem like those of someone engaged in _happier_ dreams. John’s hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically on his duvet, and as Sherlock’s eyes adapted to the dark gloom he finally noticed the tear tracks on John’s cheeks.

Without a second thought, the detective crossed the room and was at John’s bedside in an instant.

“Mary,… please…”

The doctor’s moans and groans, Sherlock now realized, were closer to pleas and sobs. _Damn!_ Sherlock thought, _We spent the entire evening discussing his wife, of course that would stir up nightmares_.

“Don’t.. don’t leave me… please… Mary…”

Sherlock wracked his brains for what to do. Should he simply shake John awake? Should he call out to him?

Another chocked sob resounded through the room. John was becoming more and more restless, the sheets had tangled around his legs, and his head jerked from side to side so often Sherlock was worried he would seriously hurt himself.

“No… please.. please stay… Mary, Mary… I love you, please… don’t leave me…’

What could Sherlock tell him? That it was going to be alright? It wasn’t, his wife was dead. It wasn’t like when he had to wake John up from nightmares of the war he wasn’t part of anymore; here he _was_ a widower. Sherlock wanted to be angry at Mary Watson then; angry at her for making John fall in love with her and then dying on him. He knew that wasn’t fair, but he needed to be angry at someone. John was hurting and he couldn’t fix it, and the person whose fault it was, was gone.

“John? John, wake up.”

John’s tear-filled cries increased tenfold. “No! Mary! Please! Please! No!”

Sherlock had to wake John and he had to do it now. Grabbing John’s good shoulder, Sherlock shook him gently but firmly. “John you must wake up right now! Wake up!”

With a loud cry, John woke up, sitting up suddenly as he surfaced from his nightmare. He was panting, clearly out of breath, and without realizing it his hands had clamped around Sherlock’s arms as he sought some anchor to reality. The detective noted he would probably have finger-shaped bruises in the morning.

“Sherlock!” gasped John, his red rimmed eyes staring wildly at Sherlock as though barely recognizing him. For a moment he wondered whether John remembered the last two days at all. The doctor seemed incredibly shaken, so Sherlock replied gently,

“I’m here.”

John stared hard into Sherlock’s eyes, looking at him in confusion. “What _are_ you doing here?” he was still gasping and panting.

“Waking you up.” Sherlock thought that should be obvious.

John’s eyes widened as he recalled his nightmare; Mary, his dear, sweet Mary, had been dying again and again and he had been pleading with her not to die, not to leave him behind. It had been a while since he’d had a dream like that, yet the images were as fresh as they were a year before.

“Was, - John tried swallowing the lump that had risen to his throat, “was I too loud?”

Sherlock was just about to answer when he was interrupted from outside the room.

“Daddy?”

“Oh, no, oh crap,- whispered John, instantly releasing his death grip on Sherlock’s arms, and moving to get up from the bed.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” Sherlock rose from the bed, opened the door slightly and crouched down, just enough so that he could see outside, but John’s little girl couldn’t see inside.

“Catherine dearest, are you alright?” he whispered softly. The two year old looked half-asleep, her red-golden curls were splayed all over the place, and her left cheek still bore the crease-marks from where her head had been pressed against her pillow. In her arms she held the plush animal Sherlock had seen on her bed earlier that day when the Watsons moved in.

The child nodded sleepily and stifled a yawn, “Is daddy ok?” she whispered.

“Yes, your father is alright.” Sherlock regarded her, realizing that he had never known anyone who could melt his heart faster than Catherine Helena Watson. He wondered if it had been because she was John’s daughter, or if it was some quality all of her own. Or perhaps she had inherited it from her mother. If she did, Sherlock realized with a pang, he understood why John missed Mary so much.

“Did he have a dream about mummy?” whispered Cathy.

_She really is too perceptive_. While Sherlock felt oddly proud that she was so perceptive, somehow he felt saddened that she was so attuned to her father’s grief. Her words meant that John had had such dreams before, and that Catherine had seen him have them; not surprisingly, Sherlock realized, given that they slept on the same bed together. Sherlock now had to decide whether to lie to the child, saying everything was ok, or tell her the truth. Somehow he knew that if he were to lie to her, it would diminish her opinion of him; she would know he’d lied to her.

“Yes, he did.” Cathy nodded knowingly.

“Is he very sad?”

How many times had this child seen her father break down? How many times had John managed to fool her? _Too perceptive indeed_.

“He is, but I’m going to help him now, ok?”

“Ok. Thanks, uncle Sh’rlock.” The sleepy child rubbed her tired eyes as she swayed lightly in place. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at John, seeing him sitting on his bed running a hand through his ruffled hair.

“I’ll be right back, John.” whispered Sherlock, realizing that they were all doing an awful amount of whispering considering they were all awake anyways. He exited the room, and silently closed the door behind him. Cathy didn’t need to see her father in this condition, no matter how many times she _had_ seen him like that in the past.

“Come, my sweet.” Sherlock didn’t know where the endearment came from, but somehow, in the stillness of the night, it felt natural. He picked her up easily and held her against his chest as he padded over to her bedroom. “Back to bed. I think this is enough excitement for one night.”

Depositing the child gently on her bed, Sherlock tenderly pulled the covers around her. He was truly fascinated by his own reactions toward this tiny person; never had he felt the need to care for someone so deeply, even counting John. “Sleep” he commanded with a slight smile.

“Thank you for helping daddy, he’s just sad ‘cause he misses mummy.”

“I know child, but he will be alright. We’ll see to it, won’t we” he said teasingly.

“Mmmhmm.” Cathy was almost asleep once again.

Driven by a sudden impulse, Sherlock bent down to place a soft kiss on the top of her head before leaving the room and returning to John’s.

John was still sitting on his bed cross-legged, his head resting on his hands.

“Is she ok?” Sherlock didn’t know whether his question was slightly muffled by his hands or by the fact that he had been crying while he’d been away.

“She’s fine John, sleeping soundly. She’s worried about you.”

“I know.”

“It’s not the first time she’s heard you, is it?”

John shook his head, a grimace on his face, “No, I was able to hide it in the beginning, she was too young after all, and I can still hide it most days, but she tends to notice. She’s got the sweetest heart. You know what she told me one time? I was very upset, it what would have been our second anniversary, but I was trying to control it for her sake, and she said ‘Don’t worry, daddy, I know you’re sad.’ and then she hugged me.” John sighed and shook his head. “Actually, you know today, you have her to thank, partly.”

Sherlock sat on the bed next to John.

“How do you mean?”

Thinking back to that morning, and John could barely believe that it had been that only that morning, John thought about what Cathy told him as he held her at the crime scene.

“I was ready to take her away Sherlock. Even after you and Greg cornered me, I was so ready to bolt. I could feel my entire body shaking, and Cathy…”

“She whispered something in your ear.”

“She.. she asked me ‘Daddy, are you sad?’” John smiled forlornly, trying to maintain his composure.

“You said ‘yes’.”

John nodded. “Then she told me, ‘I think uncle Sherlock can help.”

“To which you said ‘maybe’.”

John nodded again. “I don’t know how she understands so well. She’s so like her mother.” The words almost turned into a sob, as fresh tears filled John’s eyes.

“Ohh Sherlock, I miss her so much.” John took a deep tired breath. “It’s been a year, but I still miss her so much. Don’t get me wrong, it’s better than in the beginning, but still…” A couple of stubborn tears fell from John’s eyelashes. “I miss her smile.. and her voice. I miss the way her hair shone in the sunlight, and… I miss.. the feel of her skin under my fingers… and I miss _her_.” John covered his face with his hands, trying to hide from Sherlock. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, only to choke down another sob, “I just..I just..”

John’s hands still hid his face, but Sherlock saw how his shoulders shook, and heard the ragged breaths John took every few seconds. Sherlock’s own hands trembled at seeing John trying to control so much pain. He wasn’t used to seeing someone breaking like this, it was all so foreign and frightening, but Sherlock moved closer to John and slowly wrapped his arms around the smaller man.

At the moment of contact it was like a dam broke; all the stress and tension of the past two days, all the grief he had bottled up for the past year for the benefit of his child, everything overwhelmed John and his hands fisted in Sherlock’s dressing gown, holding on for dear life, as silent sobs wrenched through his body. Sherlock simply held him tightly, awkwardly rubbing a hand in circles on John’s back as the doctor trembled and shook in his arms.

“I’m sorry…” John mumbled in between sobs.

Sherlock’s arms tightened even more around John, and he rested his chin atop the doctor’s head as he wondered how he could possibly explain to John that he had nothing, absolutely nothing to apologize for.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I don’t mean to break down like this..”

“It is more than understandable, John. It’s actually not surprising at all.”

Sherlock immediately sensed that his choice of word wasn’t the best one, as John’s body doubled more on itself, ashamed of his perceived weakness.

“No, I suppose not… I’m such a mess..” John’s words caught on his throat once more.

Speaking carefully and hesitantly, Sherlock Holmes sought for the first time in his life to offer comfort to another human being.

“John, I.. I didn’t mean it that way. I meant that.. you’ve been through a lot. Any other man would have been utterly useless by now, but you’ve held on so long. How.. how could I not expect you not to grieve for your wife? How would you not? Even I realize that, and I’ve been assured I’m heartless. You’ve tried to suppress everything, and you can’t. I know this is rich coming from me, but sometimes… I don’t think caring is a disadvantage, or avoidable.

“And this.. well, you’ve been under an unbelievable about of stress, not only from grieving but from your job, your child, and your living arrangements. And my coming back probably didn’t help matters.”

John’s head snapped up from its place buried in Sherlock’s chest to look at the man in the face. His eyes were puffy and red, and tears still continued pouring down his cheeks, making the younger man suddenly wonder whether John had cried for Mary before at all. He remembered that Mycroft had hinted at what happened that day, but he hadn’t offered any details. Now John was staring at him with so much pain written on his face.

“Don’t say that. I’m happy you’ve retuned Sherlock, alright. You’d best believe that.”

“I know, John. But it’s given you unnecessary stress; it’s dredged up feelings you’ve tried to keep hidden, emotions you try hard not to acknowledge.”

John’s face started to crumble again, and Sherlock brought his hands to either side, lightly brushing John’s tears with his thumbs.

“You should know it’s alright to cry. You shouldn’t be ashamed of it, not here, not now. Put up your brave front for Catherine if you must; protect her from it, that’s fine. And keep it for the rest of the world too if it pleases you, but don’t be under the impression that you must maintain it here.”

John trembled slightly. “When did you become so insightful?” John voice was thick with emotion.

“I.. I’ve learned what loss is. I never experienced it before. When I died.. I felt like I lost you.. everyone… I couldn’t _stand it_. The thought that you could be gone for good… I don’t think I could handle it. I’ve.. gained too much from you… too much that I could lose. I understand it now… so I understand why you are sad. I would be sad too… for a long time.” Sherlock’s whispered words stumbled over each other, as he tried to explain his feelings to John.

“I’m only… regretful that although you have me back, and I have you, you still lost someone. I am very sorry for that.” And he was; he was sad for John because he knew how horrible it felt to lose someone. If it had felt terrible for him, and he knew John was still alive, only inaccessible, how much worse was it for John?

The doctor leaned closer to Sherlock, burying his face in the detective’s chest once more. They remained in that position for a couple of minutes before Sherlock heard the doctor speak again.

“The worst part-” John said, his voice full of tears and hiccupping slightly, “is that I’m afraid.” he admitted softly, his tears still falling, drenching Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock frowned, “Afraid John? Of what?”

“That I’ll forget… to miss her. That one day.. she.. her memory, will leave me completely.” A few more tears escaped John’s eyes, and he moved closer against Sherlock, his face buried against the younger man’s chest.

“This is why you keep wearing your ring.” Sherlock had wondered whether John kept wearing his wedding band out of some custom he wasn’t familiar with, or because he couldn’t bring himself to part with it. John burrowing deeper against him, another shiver running through him answered that question for him. Sherlock tightened his grip.

“John, I don’t think the people who matter can ever leave our memories truly.” He whispered softly. True, John’s grief would fade, and his memories of her voice and presence would become difficult to recall, but the love he felt for her wouldn’t diminish. Even if John fell in love again, Sherlock didn’t think he would ever forget his love for Mary Watson, especially given the fact that Catherine was a constant reminder. Was it possible to let go eventually? Sherlock didn’t know. He didn’t think he could do it if he lost John, so he wouldn’t ask it of the doctor either. But neither would he allow John to feel bad for overcoming his sorrow. It didn’t undermine his love, and if he considered everything he’d come to learn about Mary, Sherlock knew she wouldn’t want John to continue in endless misery either.

“Thank you Sherlock.” John sniffed and whispered softly. His arms remained wrapped around Sherlock’s thin torso, his head resting on the detective’s shoulder. Any other day, before or after, he would never have gotten this close to the younger man. Even after all they had been through, even after their close almost family-like bonds, they would likely feel awkward embracing like this at any other moment. But here, in the quiet of the night, free to properly cry for his wife for the first time in a year, John couldn’t imagine wanting anyone else but Sherlock with him.

“Back to bed, I think.” Sherlock said finally, mimicking the words he said to Cathy earlier. He could feel John’s body falling asleep from exhaustion, utterly spent emotionally. The doctor nodded tiredly against his shoulder, and Sherlock gently laid him down on the mattress.

“Thank you.” John grasped Sherlock’s hand firmly in his own, squeezing it briefly before letting go.

“Sleep well John, see you tomorrow.” Sherlock answered, seeing the smaller man already falling back asleep, before exiting and returning to his own room.

As he laid back on his own bed, Sherlock thought about Mary Watson. John would always miss her though the pain would fade away in time. He knew there would always be moments when John felt a sudden longing for her, but hopefully they would hurt less and less as time went by. However, as Sherlock told him, the people who matter never leave entirely, and Mary Watson would not be forgotten. Sherlock vowed this to himself and silently to John.

Despite the fact that he wanted to blame her for John’s current pain, Sherlock felt he owed a debt of gratitude to the woman for having rescued John from his depression after Sherlock’s ‘death’, for loving him so very deeply and for giving him their beautiful daughter, Sherlock’s niece. They had never met, and yet somehow, without meaning to, she had bound them all together into a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's "What Binds Us Together". As with the majority of my FF.net fics, I am aware of the many typos and glaring mistakes throughout. But, the fic is 5 years old and I'm not about to go proofreading it now. 
> 
> I know Cathy is a bit too precocious for her age, although I always saw her as almost 3 (in fact, I half-wrote a fic about her third birthday five years ago that I never finished). I've met a lot of very bright two year olds who were nearly this precocious, so, it's not that far off. That said, I could have made her a bit older, but I wanted to keep to the canon three-years gap, and so essentially shot myself in the foot. I can only beg forgiveness for any unbelievable scenarios and silliness. xoxo


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